


Outlaw For My Love

by sullymygoodname



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Future Fic, M/M, Post Season/Series 02, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullymygoodname/pseuds/sullymygoodname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sheriff suspects something going on between Stiles and Derek. Stiles is pretty adamant that that's ridiculous (little does he know that Derek might actually be interested). Meanwhile, there's a new monster in B-Hills, an old friend of the Stilinski family is back in town, and Derek is becoming a responsible adult. No, really.</p><p>General spoilers for the show/characters post-s2. I've been trying to avoid spoilers for s3, but that's really hard so some have filtered into this story - this is set about a year after 2x12, so the end of their Junior year of high school. Stiles is still underage (17).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outlaw For My Love

**Author's Note:**

> There are about a thousand 'pretend-boyfriends/everyone-thinks-they're-doing-it' fics, and I'm pretty sure I've read them all. This is _kind of_ one of those _'the sheriff finds them in a compromising position and comes to conclusions'_ fics. I am of the opinion that there can never be too many of those. I hope others feel the same and enjoy this.
> 
> [This song](http://youtu.be/fq5A-RS3OHE) was the original inspiration for this story (from which come the title and chapter headings) although it veered off a little on its own path. 
> 
> Also, I made up the _Black Widow_ movie release for this year because who knows when or if they'll ever finally get with the program, AND I WANTS IT NOW.
> 
> Thank you, bluefjords and venivincere, for all your help.
> 
> The story you are about to read is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the creator's imagination or are used fictitiously. This story does not reflect the views or opinions of any actual person portrayed herein.  
> ...Anyway, IT'S JUST ~~CLAY~~ ...er, FICTION!

* * *

 

I. Won't you let me walk you home from school?

 

* * *

 

The thing is, it starts out as the truth, more or less. It wasn't even werewolf-related, so there's no reason for Stiles to lie.

"Uhhh yeah, I kinda ran into him? And then we were just, um. Walking. I guess," he says when his dad corners him in the kitchen that night to inform him that he saw Stiles and _Derek Hale_ (emphasis Dad's) on Main Street this afternoon, and that they looked pretty chummy. Also? "Chummy, Dad? Really? Who says chummy?" 

"Stiles."

"What, yeah, okay, we were just hanging out. Not even. Just walking. And talking. A little bit. I mean, he doesn't actually talk all that much, but he listens. Or pretends to. He seems to remember things I tell him, anyway, the next time I see him. Which isn't often, seriously."

His dad just stands there staring at him, hands on his hips and completely ignoring the delicious vegetable stir-fry that Stiles is cooking (well, heating up really, but whatever, same thing).

"So, how was work?" Stiles tries to change the subject. "Catch any bad guys?" And perhaps that's not the best way to do it.

"Stiles. The last time I asked you how well you knew Derek Hale, you told me, and I quote, _'not very, he's probably only said twelve words to me total, seriously do you think I'd be friends with a suspected killer?'_ "

Stiles winces a little at that, but barrels on, "That wasn't untrue! I mean about the not really talking to me part, though maybe I did lowball him there just a tad, it could be more like fifteen or even twenty words, and hey he was exonerated. By you!" He points a finger at his dad. "Maybe I was just apologizing. You know, for all those times I got him wrongfully arrested?" He wasn't. And hasn't still. He should probably do that someday.

His dad still just stares at him, one eyebrow raised skeptically, but at least he drops the subject. They eat dinner in relative silence, giving Stiles time to think. It's true that he doesn't normally see Derek unless someone's life is in danger. Maybe they've talked more than he's willing to let on, but it's not like they hang out or anything. The guy rarely just hangs out. He doesn't even know what Derek was doing in town today. He wasn't shopping; he hadn't been carrying any bags or anything. Derek was even the one to say 'hey' first when Stiles came out of the drugstore with his after school snack of Mountain Dew, a bag of Funyuns, and a pack of gum. 

Then they'd just walked down the block. Together. Stiles talked, he doesn't even remember what all he was saying — he rambles, okay? Other people aren't the only ones who don't pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth. When they reached his Jeep, Derek just said, "See you," marched across the street to his Camaro, and took off.

It hadn't seemed that weird at the time.

 

* * *

 

He's mostly forgotten about it by the next afternoon when he and Dad are at the video store. Today is his dad's day off, and it's been awhile since they've spent some quality father-son time together, which means movie and pizza night. Maybe some popcorn (no salt, no butter). Dad's browsing the new releases while Stiles is already taking his selection up to the counter. He sets the movie down and peruses the snack rack, debating whether or not he can sneak some Sour Patch Kids or some Snowcaps past his dad.

"Don't you get enough horror in your everyday life?" an unexpected, yet familiar, voice startles him.

Stiles spins, elbow knocking the metal rack and sending bags of Twizzlers flying, and comes face to face with Derek Hale.

"You're picking those up," Derek says, unimpressed eyebrows sitting flat and even on his stupid, unimpressed face. He's currently behind the counter. Where the cashier would be. And he's wearing the cheap, blue uniform t-shirt that a person who works at the video store would wear.

"What?" Stiles asks, intelligently.

Derek sighs, pointing at the floor. "I'm not cleaning up your messes here, too."

And what? _What?_ Who cleans up whose messes? But before Stiles can actually voice these protests, Derek is waving the DVD at him.

"Is this all? Or are you going to purchase those, too?" He gestures again at the floor Twizzlers.

Stiles bends, picks them up, and stuffs them back into the rack. "No. No, I don't think I want to spend any more of my hard-earned money here." Derek snorts, and Stiles turns back to him, pointing a finger very… pointedly. "Also? That isn't horror. That is a cult classic."

"The remake is better."

Stiles lets his jaw drop open in disbelief. "Oh my god. How are you always wrong about everything?"

Derek just shrugs, as though his abominable taste is not something to be ashamed of. "So. You ringing out now? Do you have our rewards card?"

"Do I—what? And since when do you work here?"

"Since now. Make up your mind." Derek taps the case against the counter, miming impatience, but he's slouched down on one elbow like he's got all the time in the world and maybe doesn't even mind spending some of it with Stiles.

"Eh, I think we're still looking." Stiles jerks his head toward the far wall where his dad is taking his sweet time reading the back of every single box. Derek follows this and looks… surprised? Like he was seriously unaware that Sheriff Stilinski was in the building.

"Oh. Okay." Derek stands up straight then. He holds himself stiffly like he thinks maybe he's going to get arrested any second now. Stiles is trying his best not to find this hilarious.

"Dad rarely gets to the movies so it might take him awhile," he says in a low voice, hoping Derek will relax. It's really no fun taking pleasure in Derek's discomfort when he looks like he's about to shit himself. "I wanted to get _Black Widow_ , but it's not out for a couple days yet."

"Actually…" Derek's eyebrows go up and he leans over the counter on his elbows. "They came in yesterday. We're just not supposed to put them out until tomorrow night. I could sneak you a copy if you want."

"Seriously?" Stiles is genuinely surprised. That's what that warm, glowy feeling in his chest is. Shut up. "Are you being serious? I mean, you're usually being serious, but on the rare occasion when you aren't it's really hard to tell."

"Not to keep. You have to bring it back by tomorrow, and tell no one."

"Well, duh. I didn't think you were stealing DVDs for me. And obviously I already saw it when it was in theatres, but my dad hasn't and he'd like it, so that would be awesome, man."

"Alright. I'll be right back." Derek comes around from behind the counter. "Don't steal anything," he says over his shoulder and disappears into the storeroom.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Yeah, he's really going to stuff his pockets full of contraband Skittles and Jujubes like his father _the sheriff_ isn't standing right there. He can't stop himself smiling, though, and wondering how he never knew that Derek could be kind of cool when he tried.

"Is that the littlest Stilinski?"

For the second time that day, a voice startles him. A different, yet also familiar, voice.

"Holy crap," Stiles says, standing up straight and smiling at a face he hasn't seen in years. Molly Mcguinty — the most awesome babysitter _ever_. "I mean, hi. Hey! Wow."

"Hi," she laughs, and she looks just the same as when she was in high school and he was eight and she was the coolest person in the whole world — she always let him be Batman.

Her auburn (not red, not brown, not reddish brown, _auburn_ ) hair is still curly and wild, but now it's cut short right to her chin. Everything else about her is exactly how he remembers, and Stiles can feel a blush warming up his neck at the thought of how he used to look at her.

Especially when she comes close to stand in front of him. "You got tall."

"Heh, yeah, finally hit that growth spurt," he babbles, ducking his head a little. And hey, look at that, he's taller than her now; she has to reach _up_ to run her hand over his buzzed hair.

"Same haircut, though." She leans against the counter next to him. "Speaking of all growed up… was that Derek Hale I just saw you talking to?" she asks in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Yes." He nods. "You know Derek? Or, well, yeah, of course you do, you guys would've been in the same class, right?"

"He was a year below me, but I remember him. And Laura," she adds, eyes darkening and the corners of her mouth turning down. "I didn't know what to think when I read about what happened to her. Poor guy, his whole family."

Stiles shuffles his feet, staring down at the floor. Molly and him, yeah they know a little bit about losing someone they love. Her dad was killed when she was twelve, on a stakeout gone wrong. Mr. Mcguinty and Stiles's father were both deputies together. Stiles only vaguely remembers him from department cookouts and picnics. Stiles thinks he was dressed as Santa one year at a Christmas party. That might have been the year Stiles got scared and peed in Santa's lap. He was only four.

Molly looks up, blowing her messy hair out of her eyes. "I didn't know _you_ knew Derek. You couldn't have known him before they left. Made friends when he moved back to town?" She smirks and nudges him playfully with one elbow. "You looked pretty chummy there talking with him."

Stiles releases a nervous little chuckle, looking down at his shoes and rubbing a hand over the back of his head. He doesn't know why he's embarrassed. Also? _Chummy!_ People really do say chummy.

"Uh, I guess. I mean, yeah, he's been back for a couple years and we're… yeah, we're sort of friends now," he says, casually leaning back against the counter. He misses by an inch, stumbles, and has to jerk forward, arms windmilling, to keep his balance. He clears his throat, straightens his shirt out, flashes a grin he hopes conveys _'I totally meant to do that.'_

She's looking away from him, hiding her smile, maybe trying not to laugh at him. Stiles appreciates that.

"So," he says, "were you guys, uh, friends? In high school?"

"Not really." She shakes her head. "I remember him in journalism class, though. He was always so funny."

"Derek took journalism?" he asks. "Derek was funny?"

"Not, like, class clown funny. He had a quiet, dry sort of humor. Could be quite cutting, though, at times." She looks thoughtful then. "I guess after all that happened… and then they just vanished. I'm sure he's changed a lot."

"Oh yeah, no, Derek's great. I mean he's doing okay. He's got that whole quiet, loner thing working for him. He doesn't get out much, you know. But he's got a nice place now, so it's cool just hanging out over there."

"You hang out at his place?"

"Sure. I'm there all the time." Stiles waves like _no big_. "Well, me and some friends. I helped him pick out his furniture." It's a little bit true. Stiles threw an ad paper at him and told him to buy a damn couch already so everyone could have a place to sit. That counts as helping.

Maybe he's trying to, like, impress her a little. Sue him. He may have decided he was going to marry Lydia Martin at the tender age of nine-and-a-half, but Molly Mcguinty was kind of his idol. He used to do anything he could just to make her laugh, make her stay a bit longer, make her want to hang out with a little kid like him.

So, if being friends with the older, previously-wanted-by-the-law resident bad boy made Stiles a little more interesting… no one could blame him for embellishing.

"Wow."

"Yeah. I wouldn't say I'm his best friend or anything, but he's totally hooking me up with _Black Widow_ right now." He buffs his nails on his t-shirt, then hopes he doesn't look like a complete douche. "I wasn't supposed to tell anyone that, but me and Derek, we're kinda like this, you know?"

Behind him a throat clears. Stiles stiffens. _Oh god please be anyone but Derek please be anyone but Derek please be anyone but Derek._ He spins around slowly and…

"Heeyyy, Dad." Anyone but _that!_

"Son." His dad's giving him the _stern-sheriff-face-of-doom_. Then he abruptly swings his attention left and smiles. "If it isn't Molly Mcguinty. Haven’t seen you in awhile. You moving back to town?"

"Howdy, Sheriff. Sorry to disappoint, but I'm just here for the summer. Don't guess you're in need of a good babysitter these days, huh?" She jerks a thumb at Stiles and suddenly he's been relegated to the kiddie table again.

"You'd be surprised," says his dad, cutting his eyes at Stiles briefly. "Just visiting then?"

"Sort of. Mom's… getting remarried." She widens her eyes, does the jazz hands, like _ta-da!_ "And, apparently, as her only daughter and default maid of honor, I'm stuck organizing things. The invitations should be going out soon, so check for that in the mail."

"Really?" his dad inquires politely.

"Yeah. It's a little last minute. They've been dating for over a year now, but I guess the proposal was very sudden and unexpected and Mom's really got her heart set on the big June wedding. So I've got a month to get everything together."

"Well." His dad sucks in a breath. "You've got your work cut out for you. And that's… good—good for her. Fiona's been alone for so long now. You tell her I said congratulations."

"Will do, Sheriff." Molly smiles up at him, a real genuine smile with dimples and everything. "He's actually a pretty okay guy. Phil."

 _"Phil?"_ Stiles hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"I know, right?" Molly laughs. "He's such a Phil, too. He's this. Just. Goofy, weird, totally dorky kind of guy. You'd probably like him, Stiles."

"Oh, ha." God, her nose still crinkles when she teases him.

"So, we're having a little girls' night-slash-planning session." She brandishes a stack of movies at them. " _27 Dresses, Sweet Home Alabama, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, The Wedding Planner, Mamma Mia!_ "

"I'm sensing a theme here," Stiles says.

"Yeah, Mom's going to study all the things that can go wrong at a wedding to make sure none of those things can possibly happen. Or something." Molly shrugs. "I'm betting tonight's the first night I'm going to be drunk with my mother, so all kinds of fun will be had. What about you guys?"

Stiles shows her his pick. She nods approvingly. "Classic."

"And, uh…" Stiles looks around for Derek and spots him just standing in front of the storeroom door, watching them. His dad is standing right here, but Stiles has _kind of_ given the impression that he and Derek are best buds and he can't clam up now, so he ends up calling out, "Dude, did you fall in?" He acknowledges, privately, that that didn't make any sense.

"I had to open up the crate," Derek says as he approaches and slides the DVD across the counter. There's a bloody rag wrapped around his other hand.

"Did you cut yourself?" Molly asks, abortively reaching out. "You should get that looked at."

"No." Derek snatches his hand away. "It's fine. It's barely a scratch." He pulls the rag off and holds his hand up for half a second, flexing his fingers. "See? There's nothing." He drops his hand down and hides it behind the counter. Stiles saw enough to know that, even if there'd been sufficient blood to warrant the rag, it's fully healed now.

Derek's eyes are down, mostly focusing on the countertop, but they keep flickering in the direction of Stiles's dad, but also at Stiles and Molly, too. And then it dawns on him that Derek probably heard their entire conversation, every stupid thing he just said. Stiles kind of wishes that bashing his own face on the counter could make _Derek_ forget all of that.

"Dad, you set?" he says to distract, or break the tension, or just get them the hell out of there faster. His dad holds _Tombstone_ up in front of his chest. "Again? Seriously? We've seen this like a million times. We should really just buy it already."

"But then who would keep this place in business," his dad says, sliding the DVD across the counter toward Derek, "and Mr. Hale here employed? It's nice to see you being an active part of the community again."

Derek barely nods, still not looking directly at anyone. Stiles has never seen him this self-conscious in his life. He rings them up quickly and efficiently, speaking only to ask for their member card and to tell them the total. He only charges for the two movies, and slips the secret extra in the bag when he hands it to Stiles.

"It has to be back tomorrow night," Derek tells him, glancing at his dad then quickly away. "I work the late shift 'til midnight, bring it then."

"Yeah, I will," Stiles says, trying to usher his dad out the door. He remembers to call out "Thanks!" and waves back at Derek.

Molly's watching too, says, "See ya, Stiles!" with a little wave of her own.

"Oh, yeah, it was great seeing you," he yells back as the door closes, cutting him off. Through the glass he watches Derek and Molly talking while he rings her up. She laughs at something he says, and Stiles feels a little twinge in his stomach.

He turns back to the street, and his dad standing there giving him the _we're-going-to-have-a-talk-now_ face.

Awesome.

Stiles volunteers to pick up the pizza, buying himself a little time, but his dad's waiting for him the minute he sets foot in the house.

"Something you want to be tellin' me?"

He freezes halfway in the door and almost drops the pizza box. "Um. The Jeep is making that clunking sound again?"

His dad just sighs and turns away from him.

They watch movies, Dad in his armchair and Stiles stretched out across the floor on his stomach with his feet kicking in the air like he used to when he was a kid. The pizza sits on the coffee table between them; they eat right out of the box because, seriously, who needs to dirty more dishes? He feels his dad's eyes on him the entire time, like Stiles is a case to be solved, until he just can't take it anymore.

"It's not like I'm actually _hanging out_ with Derek," he says suddenly, rolling onto his side to face his dad. "Really. I don't think he hangs out with anyone. I don't think he knows how to just hang out, seriously. I mean, I have no idea what he even does with his time. Except, uh, go to work now, apparently. And who saw that coming?" He grins, always going for the joke.

His dad remains silent. It's a tactic. One that Stiles knows well, has seen and experienced his entire life, and one he is incapable of withstanding.

"Seriously, though. It's just, Molly was there! And how crazy was it seeing Molly Mcguinty again, right? Like, it's been awhile and she looks the same and she's still…" he trails off, shakes himself. Back to the point. "And she was talking to me, Dad, not like I'm some little kid, and she asked me about him! She used to know him, you know. Before." He doesn't need to clarify _before what_. That will never need clarification. 

And he's not lying now, not really. Sure, he was trying to convince Molly, but Stiles doesn't think he can confidently say that he and Derek are _friends_. Does Derek even have friends? He has a pack, and at one time pack meant family. But, Stiles wonders, did he ever really have friends? It's a sad thought.

"It's not like Derek's a bad guy… anymore," he tacks on because he hasn't always liked Derek, either. But all things considered… "He went through a lot of shi-ssstuff, uh, that no person should ever have happen to them. I think he's doing better now, you know, getting his life together. I mean," Stiles shrugs, "you should at least give him a chance."

His dad is silent for a few moments more before he grabs the remote and pauses the movie. "It is commendable of Derek, after everything he's been through, that he seems to be trying to get his life back on track. I am glad to see it, and glad for him, and I wish him luck."

He nods, and Stiles nods back, waiting for the rest. His dad points the remote at the TV, like that's all there is to say, and un-pauses the movie. Stiles watches uncertainly, because that did not feel like the end of that conversation, but then he settles back into watching the movie, letting his shoulders drop from where they'd hunched up around his ears.

"He's still too old for you," his dad says a while later, and turns the volume up to cut off anything Stiles might say. Which is fine, because he's got nothing but choking on his own spit as a response to that.

 

* * *

 

The next time Stiles sees Derek it's under more normal circumstances. Meaning, someone is probably about to die.

"Nobody is going to die," Derek sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He paces back into his apartment, leaving the door open for Scott and Stiles to follow.

"My dad got a call super early this morning because they found, like, body parts in the woods. Pretty sure someone already died. And what the hell happened to Isaac?" Stiles points to the half-wolfed-out beta lying on Derek's couch and cradling his arm to his chest.

"He was attacked."

"Not so much attacked," Isaac says, "as surprised? Or, like, I surprised it, I guess."

"It?" Stiles asks. "There's an it?"

"Are you alright? You weren't in school." Scott pushes forward and hovers by the couch. "Why aren't you healing?" He turns narrowed eyes on Derek.

"There was something in the wound," Derek says, ignoring the accusatory looks from Scott. "Like some sort of poison or venom. I cleaned it out for him; it's healing."

"Venom?" Stiles asks, plopping himself down on one of the mismatched barstools in the kitchen area. "Are we looking at another Kanima? Please say we're not looking at another Kanima. Have you been biting people again?" 

Stiles is joking here. Mostly. Although he's not a hundred percent sure he'd put it past Derek to go recruiting again; his pack is pretty depleted. It's just Isaac and Boyd, and sometimes Scott. And usually Stiles, but he probably doesn't count.

Derek just glares at him then raises his eyes to the ceiling in a _'why, god, why me?'_ pose. Stiles thinks about what his dad said last night and… comes to the same conclusion he did then: his dad's talking crazy. Even if Stiles looked at Derek… _like that_ , there's no way Derek would be looking back.

"And there weren't any body parts," Isaac is saying, sitting up now on the couch with Scott next to him, and Stiles tunes back in. "Not human, anyway. Something tore some animals apart, though. That's what I was following."

"Animal mutilations?" Stiles snaps to attention. "Hey, maybe it's aliens!"

"It worries me how excited that makes you," Isaac says, flexing his hand. He's looking more human now, all fuzzy-headed and soft-eyed. No more fangs.

"Wouldn't there be, like, crop circles or something then?" Scott asks. "Do we have crops?"

"Or abductions," Stiles says. "People coming back with missing time, stories about being pro—"

"What are you guys even doing here?" Derek asks, looking from Scott to Stiles, whose hands are still raised, fingers of one poking through the circle of the other. He drops them.

"Isaac texted Scott." Stiles shrugs, because obviously.

"That doesn't explain you," Derek retorts.

"Ouch." Stiles claps his hand over his heart. "You know you'd miss me."

Derek looks pained for a moment, before rubbing his eyes. "You said the sheriff got called out — why, again?"

"I didn't actually hear the whole thing. He's gotten better about preventing me from listening in." Stiles slouches down, poking his tongue into his cheek and biting his lower lip. He looks up to see Derek staring at his mouth. Stiles quits chewing on his face. "All I got was 'woods' and 'body parts.' Or maybe it was 'pieces.' All I know is someone reported some kind of disturbance. There was more, but I couldn't…" He shrugs again.

"You don't think the Alphas are back, do you?" asks Scott, brow furrowed.

"No," Derek says immediately. "Erica wouldn't let that happen."

Nobody argues. Erica leaving with the Alpha pack is one of those things they don't talk about. Even though she'd saved Derek's life, killed the Alpha that tried to kill him, she still left. They have a pact with the Alphas, and Erica, though the youngest of them, holds a place of power now like she's always wanted.

"If it's just animals, though," Stiles says, to get back on point and take that look off Derek's face, "they'll hand it over to the wildlife service."

"Fine." Derek's nodding, more to himself than them it seems. "Just stay out of the woods for now. Who knows, this time it might actually be a mountain lion."

"A mountain lion with venom?" Stiles asks, because _seriously?_

"It didn't smell like a mountain lion," says Isaac. He rotates his arm and it looks like it's fully healed now.

"You said it didn't smell like anything," Derek says.

"What did it look like?" asks Scott, who is now inspecting Isaac's healed arm.

Isaac shakes his head. "It was too fast to see. Also, kind of up. Like, in the trees?"

"And we're back to Kanima." Stiles leans forward. "Scott, remember when you were trying to track Jackson? You said he didn't have a scent."

"I didn't say it smelled like nothing," Isaac cuts in, "just like nothing I've ever smelled before."

"Soooo… it's something new?" Stiles taps his fingers against his bouncing knees. It's not that he's excited about this. Really.

"Why does there have to be something new?" Scott whines, standing up and digging his fingers through his hair. "Why is there always a something? Why can't we just go through one semester where all I have to worry about is not failing English?"

"I thought your grade was up," Stiles says. "Are you ready for the final?"

"Yeah. I think." Scott sags back onto the couch. "Allison and Lydia have been helping me study. And with Lydia there, you know we did actual studying."

"Oh, right." Stiles nods because that's… that's fine. That they're studying. Without him. "What about Physics? If you still need help with that—"

"Nah, Isaac's been working with me. We got it covered. You should join us next time," Scott says, oblivious as always.

"Y-yeah…" Stiles would have, if he'd known about it. It's cool, though, he doesn't need all that much studying and he gets distracted when other people are around anyway.

"This is all truly fascinating," Derek says, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on, "but, all of you, get out. I have to go to work before I get fired."

"Work?" Scott asks, eyebrows raised and forehead all wrinkled in surprise.

"I thought you worked tonight," Stiles says, standing and heading for the door. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Scott giving him a weird look. He ignores it. "The late shift?"

"I do. This is a different job," Derek says, shoving them out of his apartment and back onto the street. "I'll take a walk around the preserve later, don't do anything before then."

"I could find out what my dad knows," Stiles says because he's going to do that anyway and he may as well keep everyone in the loop. Things always go wrong when people are left out of the loop.

"Fine, do that," Derek says, reluctantly. "But nothing else. I'm serious. Stay out of the woods, do not go looking for this thing. Isaac, go fill Boyd in. He should be with his grandmother. Tell him we've got it covered, he won't have to leave her."

Isaac salutes and heads off in the direction of Boyd's house. Stiles would've offered him a ride, at least, but _aw, darn it_ he's already halfway down the street. He goes to climb into his Jeep when he remembers something.

"Oh wait, Derek!" Stiles calls out before Derek can duck into his car and drive away. He reaches into his Jeep and pulls the DVD out. He walks it over to Derek, since he's apparently just going to stand there, and hands it to him. "Here, before I forget and you get into trouble or something."

"Oh. Thanks." Derek stares down at the case in his hand. He doesn't appear in a hurry to leave now. "Was it good?"

"Yeah. I told you I already—" Stiles bites his lip, caught off guard by Derek's eyes staring up at him. "You haven't seen it?"

Derek shakes his head. He shifts his weight, as though to move away, but then he… doesn't. "Did your dad like it?" he asks instead.

"Huh? Oh. Totally." Stiles nods. Derek bringing up his dad just reminds him of that _super_ mortifying conversation last night. He pushes that away. "Dad's a secret Marvel fanboy, but don't tell him I told you that."

"You're probably a DC loyalist."

"Eh, I have my preferences, sure, but really," he says, palms upward, weighing the sides, "why pick just one when you can enjoy them all?"

Derek gives him a funny look then, and glances over Stiles's shoulder to where Scott is waiting at the Jeep.

"I bet," he says eventually, and... sort of… Is he smiling? A little bit? It's not a smirk; it's too soft for that. He pulls his car door open, forcing Stiles back a step or two. "Maybe I'll play it while I'm at work," Derek says, waving the DVD. Then the engine roars and he speeds off to whatever other mystery job he now holds.

Scott's already in the passenger seat when Stiles gets in. He puts his seatbelt on and starts the ignition before he turns to face Scott who has just been staring at him.

"What?"

"Since when does Derek have a job?"

"Since now?" Stiles shrugs and pulls out onto the road. "Guy's gotta pay for his Kibbles'n'Bits somehow."

Scott looks like he wants to say more, but his face contorts in exasperation and he just shakes his head. Everyone is sick of the dog jokes, but Stiles refuses to give them up.

 

* * *

 

Nothing happens after that; Derek doesn't find anything in the woods, the Sheriff's Department gets no further, there are no more animal pieces splattered anywhere, and all Stiles has to worry about is finals. He does well, Scott passes, and they spend the first week of their last summer before senior year… doing pretty much what they've done all the other summers.

Stiles sleeps until two in the afternoon three days in a row. It's _glorious_.

His dad receives an invitation to Molly's mom's wedding. So does Stiles. It's the first wedding invitation he's ever received of his very own where he's not just included in with his dad (or his parents, since he's pretty sure the last wedding they went to was one of his mom's cousins — Stiles was six). He's, like, considered an adult now! There's even a line for his own plus one.

Not that he's got a plus one, or anything. Who would he take? Scott? Although, Scott remembers Molly so that might not be too weird — she'd probably get a kick out of seeing that Scott and Stiles are still best friends. 

It would've been cool to have an actual date for once, but Stiles has pretty much resigned himself to perpetual loserdom. At least until college.

He wonders if his dad will bring a date. He doesn't ask, though, because if he asks then his dad will ask him and that is a line of questioning that Stiles would like very much to avoid. Stiles has managed to dodge talking about any people he might or might not be hanging out with, or how he definitely does not have an inappropriate relationship with an older man.

He's been doing such a good job of pretending the very idea was never even imagined, let alone spoken of, that he's mostly forgotten to be careful about it. Until he and his dad are at the market and he sees Derek Hale behind the deli counter.

He's wearing an apron.

Stiles chokes taking in air and nearly knocks a display of sticky buns over. Of course Derek looks up and sees him. From this distance it's difficult to decipher the expression that passes over his face, but Stiles is going to guess it's something along the lines of _'kill me now.'_

Stiles was planning on getting a roast chicken for dinner, but he hesitates to go over there now. He argues internally that they don't especially _need_ anything from the deli… except he really did want to get that chicken because otherwise they've got nothing prepared for dinner tonight which is why the Stilinski men are doing their grocery shopping now and he'll be damned if he's letting his dad get fast food on the way home. They'd both rather be doing anything else, but Stiles can't trust his dad not to load up on all the salty snacks and red meat that he's not supposed to have, and when Stiles goes alone he always forgets something important. Also, they were out of toilet paper.

Which is where his dad is at the moment, off to get the basics, so he's not here, so it's cool if Stiles goes over and talks to Derek. Right? Right.

He wheels his basket over, just stopping himself from pushing off and hopping on the crossbar for a ride — last time he did that there were… bad things.

"You work here, too?" he asks, pulling up in front of the glass case. Derek just looks at him (and his eyebrows don't even twitch). Stiles supposes the apron should be answer enough. It's just a plain, white apron with the Beacon Market logo across the chest. And it's remarkably pristine. Stiles would've expected, like, bloodstains at least.

"Stiles." Derek's voice makes him jump. "Are you going to order something, or just stand there and stare?"

He shuffles around closer to the counter and explains about the roast chicken for his dad.

"You know that's not actually all that healthy," Derek says. "It's loaded with butter and salt."

"But it's chicken." That's supposed to be better, isn't it? Stiles pokes at the glass above the macaroni salad. "Hey, what's in this stuff? I'm always tempted to try it."

"I wouldn't." Derek bends behind the counter and comes back up with a package wrapped in butcher's paper. "Get this instead of the chicken."

"That looks like steak. My dad can't have _steak_ , Derek." 

"It's lean cut," Derek explains. "If you let your dad have red meat occasionally, he probably wouldn't be sneaking burgers from Mickey D's once a week."

Stiles narrows his eyes. "He doesn't."

"He does. It's a distinctive smell, and it lingers." Derek finishes wrapping up the steaks, sticks a price label on the package, and hands it over. Stiles is going to ignore, for now, the fact that his dad is a filthy, lying diet-cheater. Also, the fact that Derek has been in close enough proximity to _smell him_ , and frequently.

"This is more expensive than the roast chicken," he says instead.

"Because it's better."

"Are you just trying to get me to spend more money? Do you get paid on commission? Meat commissions?" And, oh, that sounded so bad. It sounds even worse when he repeats it in his head. Derek looks like he knows exactly where Stiles's mind went.

"Nobody wants the chicken, Stiles, that's why it's always half off. Look, your dad has a grill?" Stiles nods. "Lightly season, you don't need a marinade, and grill 'em however you like. Pair it with a salad or steamed vegetables if you're really worried about him eating healthy."

Stiles studies the steak, then Derek. "I have to cook these vegetables myself? Or can I just get one of those microwave bag thingies?"

Derek sighs. He doesn't roll his eyes, oh no, he rolls his entire head on his neck because simple eye-rolling would not sufficiently express his vexation. Stiles can tell these things. Derek strips off the plastic gloves he's wearing, drops them in the trash, and pulls out a new pair before moving off down the counter, and Stiles figures Derek is just done with him.

"Whoa, déjà vu," says a voice suddenly next to him, and it's Molly. She's smiling. At him. "You two again."

"Um." Stiles looks down at his steaks clutched in both hands. 

"Did you know they did catering?" Molly says, pointing toward the deli counter.

"I did not." He shakes his head dumbly.

"Small towns. I forgot what that was like. Now I just need a florist who can deliver, like, a _billion_ pink roses. Mom picked her colors and it's like Valentine's Day barfed everywhere. Seriously, there's so much pink and red all over the place right now it looks like a slaughterhouse."

"Did you try Miller's?" Derek asks, reappearing behind the counter. "The florist. It's right next door."

"Oh, hi!" She jumps a little, turning to Derek. It's almost fun to see him startle other people, except now she's not looking at Stiles anymore. "Are they good?" she asks.

Stiles tries to lean back into her line of sight, but he doesn't answer the question. He knows jack squat about flowers, other than his mom loved daisies because they were happy and they could grow anywhere.

"I guess," Derek mutters, eyes averted. "I only ever buy flowers for the cemetery, and they're the only place in town."

There's a long silence after that. Stiles opens his mouth a couple times, but nothing comes out (he's as surprised about that as anyone else would be).

"Oh, well thanks. I'll try them next," Molly says, stumbling only a little. "Wait, Miller? Like, the Millers? They own a florist's now?"

"I don't—the guy who works there..." Derek says slowly. "He's a little weird. Short. Red hair. About our age, I guess."

"That's totally Chucky Miller!" Molly says. "You don't remember him from school, do you? What am I saying, you didn't remember me either."

"I…" Derek shakes his head. "Sorry."

"No, it's cool. Anyway, I'm here to see…" She pulls a scrap of paper from her pocket and holds it up for Derek. "This guy. He around?"

"Drew should be up front. Just ask any of the cashiers, they'll page him for you. I'd take you up, but I can't leave the counter."

"Oh no, sure. Thanks." She starts to back away, then her eyes flick to Stiles. "See ya at the wedding. It's gonna be nuts." She turns and disappears past the produce section.

"Here." A plastic container is shoved under Stiles's nose.

"What's that?" he asks, backing up so he can see it without crossing his eyes.

"Arugula salad," says Derek. "To go with your steaks. You don't have to add anything to it, and it's got light dressing."

"Oh." He takes the container, juggles it with the steaks, and almost drops both. "How could you not remember Molly Mcguinty?"

Derek shrugs, and busies himself slicing… something. Stiles can't tell what it is. Some type of meat probably. Maybe sausage. He wonders if they make their own sausage here. He wonders if Derek is ever the sausage-maker…

"Stiles!" his dad calls out behind him. Stiles whips around to find him dumping stuff into his empty basket. "You haven't gotten anything yet? We've already been here for half an hour." Then he looks past Stiles and his face morphs from 'dad' to 'sheriff' to 'Dad the Sheriff' in half a second. "Mr. Hale. Funny seeing you here. With my son. Again."

Derek's shoulders hunch up, but he nods almost politely, finishes his work and scuttles away from the counter.

"Look, Dad. Derek says you can have steak." Stiles waggles the package in his dad's face. "Steak!"

 

* * *

 

It's an awkward car ride home, followed by an awkward dinner (but Derek's steaks turn out really good). Mostly, his dad just gives him the disappointed face and sighs a lot. Stiles can't tell, though, if the disappointment is because he's friends with Derek or because he's still lying about being friends with Derek (because he has absolutely not admitted to being friends with Derek).

Pointing out that Derek's got a nice place to live and, apparently, _two_ jobs, and that he's practically an upstanding citizen these days does not really help. Possibly Stiles should have not brought up the 'nice place to live' part. It makes his dad twitch.

 

* * *

 

The bad thing about doing the grocery shopping with his dad is that Stiles can't buy all the snack foods that _he_ wants, either (it would be cruel to, like, taunt the man). So he's making his way toward the 7-11, taking a shortcut through the alley, when he trips over some spilled garbage and lands on his face. Well, he manages to break his fall before his chin becomes intimate with the pavement. His hands are not saved, but at least there's no broken skin.

He rolls over onto his back, but his feet are tangled up. He kicks out, trying to free himself, and sees that his feet aren't tangled in garbage. They're tangled up by someone else's sneakers, attached to someone else's legs, attached to a someone else who is lying face up in the alley and not moving at all.

"Hoshit!" Stiles scrambles away until his back hits the opposite wall. He whips out his phone and calls the first person that comes to mind. "Derek? Where are you?" he asks before Derek even has a chance to say 'hello' (not that he ever does).

"I'm at work."

"You are? But—never mind. Is there any way you can leave now?" There's a short pause and Stiles wonders if Derek can hear the frantic beating of his heart through the phone.

"Is this an emergency?" Derek asks slowly, voice low.

"Um, it's not the kind of emergency where I'm about to die… I hope," Stiles adds, eyes darting frantically from shadow to shadow. "But, uh, it looks like it was already that kind of emergency for someone else."

"Tell me where you are."

Derek's there less than five minutes later. Stiles is bouncing on the balls of his feet on the corner of the block waiting for him. He'd been debating with himself whether or not he'd have time to run into the 7-11 for a Slurpee. Guess not.

"You alright?" Derek looks him up and down, assessing, and Stiles is stunned into just nodding. Derek makes a satisfied face, then says, "If I get fired, you're gonna start paying me every time I have to come save your ass."

"Um, excuse me? I think I already do that in mutual ass-saving," Stiles says, indignant, and starts walking backward toward the alley. Derek follows. "Why don't you get a job where saving people is, you know, your job?"

"I doubt I'm qualified for any of those." Derek catches up and manhandles Stiles around so they're both walking forward, side-by-side. His hands are hot on Stiles's shoulders through his thin t-shirt.

"Dude. You are _more_ than qualified. How many firefighters could scale a building without any equipment and carry, like, eight people out at once?" Stiles pauses, thinking of Derek as a fireman — he's shirtless wearing those heavy-duty pants with the suspender-thingies. Stiles shakes that image out of his head and glances at Derek who's looking a little pale, eyes downcast.

Oh. Right. _Damn._ Stiles could kick himself sometimes.

"Or you could just solve crime," he says quickly. _"They're a badass pack of werewolves who hide their vulnerable hearts behind leather and fangs. They fight crime!"_ He raises both fists for emphasis. Derek looks unmoved. "Seriously, though, you could be like a bomb-sniffing dog."

Derek glares at him. "Where is this emergency."

"Or a private eye?" Stiles grins, glad to see that familiar stony scowl. "Well, technically, a private nose because, let's face it, that would totes be your money-maker. Not to be confused with your ass, which is the traditional money-maker." The scowl deepens, eyebrows of imminent assault getting in on the action. "I'm shutting up now. It's just down there." Stiles points into the alley.

Derek releases him to go ahead, and Stiles hadn't even realized that Derek's hand was still on his shoulder until it's gone. He doesn't particularly want to see the body again, but he steps up gingerly behind Derek anyway.

"Pretty bad, right?" Stiles says, peeking over Derek's shoulder. "I mean, very… clawed? With claws. So, survey says werewolf?"

"Chucky Miller," Derek says, so quiet it's almost a whisper.

"Who? Wait, that sounds famil—the guy Molly was talking about? Who you guys went to school with? Who you buy flowers from?"

Derek's side-eyeing him, but he nods. He steps around the legs and crouches down to get a closer look.

"I thought you didn't remember him," Stiles says.

"I didn't," Derek replies, not looking up. "I don't really remember anyone from high school. I try not to look back on those days much. But he's definitely the florist." Derek points and, just in the shaft of light from the street, Stiles can see under the blood that the guy's hair is a bright orangey-red. "There's nothing here," Derek says, standing up again.

"What do you mean?"

"No scent other than the blood and the… him. Nothing to indicate a rogue omega attack." Derek holds his hand up, shadow of his fingers slicing over the body. "The claw marks could match, but they could match a lot of other things, too."

"Other things like…?"

"Like other things, Stiles. I don't know." He still sounds angry when he says that, but at least they've made it to a point where Derek can admit he doesn't know something. "You should call the sheriff and report this. What were you even doing out here so late? What if you'd been walking through here _while_ this was happening?"

He's not used to getting that look from Derek. Derek has directed a lot of looks at him, and most of them tend to be _'why is this my life?'_ or _'I'm going to kill you.'_ He can't really deal with _'what if you'd been hurt?'_ looks from Derek. Like Derek would be _sad_ about it, or something. So he ignores it.

"Which is it? Am I out too late, or not late enough?"

"Stiles."

"Okay, A?" Stiles counts off on his fingers. "It's barely midnight. Two, I'm seventeen, not twelve, and school's out so it's not like I have a curfew." Derek raises one eyebrow. "Fine, yeah, whatever, but my dad knows I'm not out vandalizing the town or getting wasted or having unpro—" He cuts that off right there, sucking in a huge breath and nearly choking. For all he knows, right now, that might very well be _exactly_ what his dad thinks he's been getting up to.

Oh, _if only._

"Lastly," Stiles continues as though there was absolutely not a highly suspect pause there, "it's not like I was just wandering around by myself. I was hanging with Scott earlier, but now he's with—"

"Allison," Derek finishes for him with a weary sigh.

"Those crazy kids, am I right?" There's not quite so much tension between Scott and Derek these days. Or Derek and Allison, but that's probably because they mostly just don't interact. It's still a touchy subject to be avoided when possible.

"Anyway, I was on my way home soon; I just wanted to get something to eat," Stiles says, pointing at the 7-11 sign. "I swung by the video store first. To, uh, to see if…" Stiles trails off. Why did he tell Derek that?

Derek's face looks as confused as Stiles's brain. "I wasn't there."

"No. No, you weren't. I didn't get anything."

"I was at the market helping Drew clean up and order everything for that wedding they're doing."

"Drew?"

"He's the manager."

"Oh."

They stand there for a minute in silence. Derek's hands move, like he was going to slip them into his pockets but he's not wearing his jacket so they just hang there at his sides. He's not wearing his cute little apron, either. Stiles blinks and looks away first.

"So I should probably call my dad about… that." He gestures toward the body, and seriously how did he forget that he was standing not ten feet away from a dead body? _How?_ He pulls his phone out, fiddles with it, and looks back up at Derek. "You should definitely not be anywhere near here."

Derek nods, but takes a couple steps closer to him. "Won't you get in trouble for being out so late?"

"Probably." Stiles shrugs. He waits, thumb poised to make the call. "Are you going?"

"I'm not leaving you here alone. I'll take off when I hear them coming." Derek isn’t looking at him. He's scanning the area around them, sniffing for clues.

Stiles makes the call, and Derek remains silent next to him. He'd like to protest that he's perfectly fine on his own, but he doesn't because… he'd kind of rather Derek waited with him, too.

His dad's not happy, but he doesn't seem at all surprised, either, to find Stiles at the scene of another grisly death. It should bother Stiles more that he's just relieved Derek managed to steal away and vanish into the night only seconds before the cruiser appeared.

 

* * *

 

His dad said nothing about him being grounded, though, so Stiles is on the road the next day when that clunking sound his Jeep was making turns into the sound the garbage disposal makes when you accidentally drop a fork down there, and then suddenly the Jeep stops making any sounds at all.

Super.

He coasts to a stop on the side of the road, throws it in park, and just sits there for a minute. If he calls his dad, he's going to get a lecture — it's a bit of a tossup which lecture he'll get, but he's not really in the mood for any of them. Plus his dad is home sleeping and it would be wrong to wake him up now when he's got to work later.

Luckily, he's got the number for Armor Service Center saved in his phone. Stiles is pretty sure his Jeep alone has been keeping them in business the last couple of years. They get a tow truck out pretty quickly and Stiles rides back to the garage. He can call Scott to come pick him up, or maybe just walk to the veterinarian clinic if Scott's working. Derek's apartment isn't far from there, either. Stiles was planning to check out the florist's, get some information on the dead guy. Maybe Derek would want to come with him.

So, he practically falls out of the cab of the truck when they pull into the garage and Derek is the one to greet them. Wearing dirty, gray coveralls. Derek helps the driver, Tom, get the Jeep unhooked and inside, then waves him off and beckons Stiles over to the desk.

"Do you just work at every business in town now, or what?"

"No. Just these three." Derek's wiping his hands on an oily rag, working it thoroughly between his fingers. Stiles blinks a couple times when he realizes he's staring.

"You remember that the previous employees of these establishments were _brutally murdered_ , right?"

"Why do you think there were job openings?"

"Well, there's another opening over at the florist's if you'd like to round out your resume," Stiles bites back.

Derek actually flinches (it's very, very subtle, but Stiles catches it — and feels like a dick). He drops the rag onto the grimy desk. "What did your dad say?"

"About the guy? He sent me home before I could really get any info."

"About you being out there," Derek clarifies.

"Oh. Nothing really. He got home late so… so we haven't talked yet." Because Stiles pretended to be asleep when his dad got home, and his dad was asleep when Stiles got up this morning. "I told him what I told you — Scott bailed on me and I wanted a Slurpee."

"I found something last night after I left you," Derek says in a hushed voice, bending his head close to Stiles. "Skin."

"Skin? Someone was skinned?!"

Derek glances around them, makes that face where his mouth screws up, and his eyebrows tell Stiles to keep it down. "No, more like something shed its skin. It wasn't too far from the… from that alley."

"Like a snakeskin?" Stiles asks, quietly this time. "Or another giant man-lizard?"

"No, this was… definitely not scaly at all." Derek's face suggests it was very unpleasant, whatever it was. He leans even closer, and lowers his voice to an impossible timbre. "There are shifters that shed their skins. When they change. But I couldn't tell what it was. The skin, I mean."

"Okay." Stiles nods, taking this in. "Also, gross."

He's contemplating how much time he'll have to research and where he should start first — Argent's Bestiary or Google? — when Derek shoves some paperwork at him and tells him to fill it out. He nods to a guy sauntering by whom Stiles assumes is his boss.

"How much you think this is gonna run?" Stiles asks, writing down his information.

"No idea," says Derek, trying to look busy. "I'm not a certified mechanic, so Howard will be doing all the work. And I can't get you a discount, so don't even ask."

"Then what do you do here?"

Derek sighs, slouching onto the counter. "Oil changes, mostly. Rotate tires, window repairs, other small stuff." He goes back to wiping his hands with the rag — it's really just spreading the grease over his skin and under his fingernails. "I'll be here for the rest of the day so… Isaac knows about the skin thing; get with him if you find out anything new."

Stiles doesn't get a chance because later that night Isaac finds more of this shed skin. And possibly the thing it was attached to.

 

* * *

 

"Shh!" Derek huffs, cupping one hand over Stiles's mouth and grabbing him around the middle with the other. Stiles is then yanked off his feet and whirled around dizzyingly until he comes to an abrupt stop against a dirty brick wall. Just like old times.

"Is it the… thing?" Stiles whispers as soon as Derek takes his hand away. He's rewarded with a glare and the _'shut up, you idiot'_ eyebrows. Derek presses him even harder into the wall. It hurts, but Derek is essentially shielding Stiles with his own body which is… almost considerate.

"It must have circled back behind us somehow," Derek says directly into his ear, barely audible. It sends a shiver through Stiles, vibrations tickling his ear hairs because that's how sound works and it doesn’t mean anything.

"Or maybe there's two of them," Stiles replies without thinking.

Derek draws back an inch to look at him, and his eyebrows clearly express _'Why would you even say that, now you've jinxed us. Idiot.'_ Stiles knows this because he is the freakin' Rosetta Stone for Grumpy Werewolf Eyebrows.

They've been tracking the new shapeshifter through town. Scott and Isaac had gone one way, leaving Stiles with Derek — it's usually how they split up these days (unless Boyd's with them, but Derek has expressly said not to bother him if it's not necessary). The thing is fast, like Isaac said, and apparently it doesn't smell right, whatever that means. It's definitely not a werewolf, and it's not a leapin' lizard, either. Nobody has actually seen it up close, yet, so they're basically just following Derek's spidey—er, _wolfy_ -sense. Which is, like, his super-nose and his super-ears and maybe some sort of magical detector that only supernatural creatures have where they just know when things are going bump in the night.

But then Stiles hears it, too, the shuffling soft tap of footsteps on concrete creeping toward them. He feels Derek tense, muscles in his shoulders bunching, ready to pounce, and hey how did Stiles's hands get there? He's contemplating pulling away, except there's no space for him to back up, when a flashlight beam shines directly into his eyes. Derek looks away, which is probably a good thing in this situation because his eyes flare red and, yeah, that's Stiles's dad there staring at them.

"Um." He lifts his hands from Derek's shoulders.

"Stiles?"

Derek springs backward, putting a respectable two feet of distance between them, and shoves his hands into his pockets. That… that does not make him look less guilty in any way.

"We were just—" Stiles starts, but his dad cuts him off.

"Car. Now." He waves his flashlight from Stiles to the cruiser parked just up the road. "You too, Mr. Hale."

"No, Dad, he can't." Stiles takes two steps away from the wall, putting himself between Derek and his dad. He pushes at Derek, who doesn't even budge. "Go."

"Stiles, I—"

"You can't leave Scott and Isaac out there alone," Stiles says quietly enough so that only werewolf ears can pick it up. Derek only stares at him, eyes wide. "Go, now. Go!"

He shoves Derek hard, ignoring the look on his face that Stiles doesn't _want_ to be able to decipher, until he finally turns and flees. Stiles racks his brain trying to come up with an explanation, a believable lie, anything.

Except he knows which lie his dad will believe. When he looks up and sees the expression on his dad's face, though, Stiles finds he can't say anything at all.

His dad takes him by the elbow and puts him in the back seat — the _back_ seat — of his patrol car, shutting the door quietly. He just stands there next to the car for a while. Stiles peers through the window, trying to get a glimpse of his face, but the glare from the streetlamps is too bright. After what feels like a very long time, his dad finally opens the driver's side door and slides in behind the wheel.

"I know you know someone was _killed_ around here just yesterday. I know you know that because _you were there_ ," his dad says, looking straight ahead. "Is that what you were doing out last night, too? You were with Derek?"

"What I—no, I already told you what I was doing there." He hadn't been lying then! He may have omitted that Derek was there at one point, but the rest was the truth.

"I almost feel better knowing you're with him and not out here alone," his dad mutters.

"I—really?"

His dad heaves a big sigh. "No, not really." He starts the car, and puts it in gear. "I'm taking you straight home, where you will _stay_." He turns and levels a look at Stiles through the grate separating them. "And we are going to have a talk when I'm not on duty. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

 

* * *

 

II. Won't you tell your dad get off my back?

 

* * *

 

Stiles doesn't know how Scott did this before he got his superhuman lung capacity, because his chest is _on fire_ and his legs are about to fall off. He stops pedaling and just walks his old bike the last thirty yards to the garage. He really, really needs for his Jeep to be okay again.

He's a little surprised to see Derek behind the desk when he enters the front office, considering he worked here yesterday, but Stiles doesn't know what his schedule is like. He wonders how Derek has time for three jobs _and_ werewolf shenanigans. Wow, that must really suck.

Derek doesn't look up when Stiles approaches — jerk probably heard him coming from down the street. He's leaning his elbows on the desk, casually flicking through a magazine, looking for all the world like he's got nothing better to do. He gets _paid_ for this? Stiles takes back whatever sympathetic thoughts he might've had.

"Surprised you're out. Here, I mean," Derek says, finally glancing up at him. "Figured you'd be under house arrest."

"Oh no, I'm definitely grounded 'til I'm thirty. Or at least until I turn eighteen. Which, as I pointed out to my dad, is only in, like, four and a half months." Stiles leans against the desk, too, but that brings his face unbearably close to Derek's, so he coughs and backs away quickly.

Derek's eyebrows rise about half an inch on his forehead.

"Yeah, that didn't really help my case with him, either," Stiles says. "Mostly because he thinks we're doing it."

"Doing what?"

Stiles just _looks_ at him.

"Oh." Derek blinks. " _What?_ " He stands up, rearing back from the desk (and Stiles) so fast it looks like it hurt.

"Well, I couldn't exactly deny that I was being pressed up against a wall in a dark alley in the middle of the night by a grown man, could I?" Stiles doesn't know why he's so annoyed all of a sudden.

"So you told him… _that_?!"

"No!" Annoyed, definitely annoyed. He's not angry or… _god_ , hurt about any of this. "I… I didn’t say anything really. Dad just took my silence as an admission of guilt."

"Then why are you here?!" Derek still looks panicked, checking around them even though they seem to be the only ones in the office and he'd be able to hear or smell if anyone else was nearby.

"Look, it's—it's not that bad. I mean, I'm seventeen, so it's really only a little bit illegal and I'm pretty sure Dad's not going to arrest you for statutory rape." Stiles is mostly joking, though he may not be sure which part is the joke.

"No," Derek grits out through his teeth, looming over Stiles now. "He's going to arrest me for murder. _Again._ Only this time, I'll actually be guilty because I am going to—"

"Yeah, yeah. My throat, your teeth." Stiles waves his hand through the air and rolls his eyes. "Just get over it already. Also, you need some new material."

Derek's eyes linger on Stiles's throat — like he's actually thinking about it right now, _seriously?_ Stiles tips his chin down, hiding his neck from view, and Derek's eyes flicker briefly, just a sliver of red, before he shakes his head.

"We can't talk about this here," Derek says, mouth returning to its usual frown with his arms folded tightly across his chest. "It was difficult enough to get anyone to hire me, I can't—not here."

Stiles kind of thought they were already done talking about it; really, what else is there to say? His dad will soon realize it's completely absurd. Stiles will probably have to convince him that Derek is a friend, though. Or something. That's not really a lie, is it? Maybe he can get Derek to fake it just a little, help sell it.

Another car pulls up outside and a short, balding man gets out. Derek moves around him toward the door. "I have to take care of this customer, so—"

"No wait. I got a text from Scott last night — or, really early this morning, whatever — basically saying everyone was fine, but it was light on the details." Meaning there were none. "So what happened?"

"I said not here." Derek whirls around, slicing his arm through the air to cut Stiles off. He breathes in deep, eye closed, almost like meditation. "Nothing. We lost it. I sent them home."

"That's it?" Stiles asks, and Derek spreads his hands in a 'what do you want?' type of gesture.

"Look, we can't do this _here_ ," Derek stresses, which is so rich coming from him. Stiles spent his entire sophomore year putting up with this bullshit in inappropriate places.

"Fine, whatever," Stiles huffs, making his way out the door, but he's drawn back by a hand loosely clasped around his wrist.

"Later?" asks Derek, and it _is_ a question. His eyes look soft and bright in the sunlight streaming through the front windows. "I should be home around three. We can talk about it then."

"Okay." Stiles nods. The skin around his wrist is warm, and tingling all the way up his arm. They're already outside and Derek's heading over to greet his customer when Stiles remembers the whole reason he came here today. "My Jeep!"

Derek turns back around to face him. "They'll call you when it's done." He sounds impatient now, and makes _shooing_ motions with his hands. Stiles makes the same gesture back at him and points over Derek's shoulder, all _'you've got a customer,'_ until Derek finally turns his back on him. Stiles watches him walk away in his gratuitously tight coveralls.

He picks up his bike and sets off down the road.

 

* * *

 

They reconvene at Derek's apartment — Stiles, Scott, Isaac, and Boyd. And Derek, obviously, only Stiles is not seeing him anywhere, so he rummages through Derek's cupboards while he's got the chance. There's not much in here, to be honest. For a guy who works in a grocery store, you'd think his kitchen would be better stocked. Other than a couple of apples on the table, it's all granola bars and Rice-A-Roni and... Heh, Derek eats Cocoa Puffs. Stiles would've figured him for more of a Wheaties or Raisin Bran kind of guy. Maybe Frosted Flakes to mix it up — there's even growling on the box.

He's literally caught with his hand in the cookie jar (Derek has a cookie jar! Filled with actual cookies!) when Derek emerges damp and shirtless in a dark pair of blue jeans. There's a steamy, citrusy air wafting about him and his hair is sticking up in all directions. He looks at Stiles first, but it's not until he eyes the others all lounging on his sofa that he looks bothered.

"Oh good, you all let yourselves in," Derek says dryly. After a moment of indecisive glaring, he perches on the stool next to Stiles and knocks his hand out of the way to grab a cookie. They're oatmeal.

"Stiles told us you said to meet here at three?" Scott's brow furrows, but he doesn't say anything else, leaning back into the couch between Isaac and Boyd.

"Yeah, didn't realize I was your secretary," Stiles grumbles, getting a cookie of his own and chomping on it as obnoxiously as he can. "You said we needed to talk about the thing," he explains through his mouthful, spraying crumbs everywhere. Derek leans away from him, brushes a hand down his bare chest, flicking cookie bits off his skin, and Stiles is not looking at that, nope.

"That's how you get ants," says Boyd from across the room. Stiles smirks at him, but Boyd plays it cool with a simple nod of acknowledgement.

"Are we going to talk about the dead guy?" Scott asks. "Last night was a bust, but we are going to do something, right?"

"I've been at work since eight this morning. From which I just got home, showered, and changed." Derek gestures toward the back of his apartment and then himself. "What the hell were _you_ doing all day?"

"You always tell us not to go off and do stuff on our own!"

"And you said you didn't want to be involved anyway, so quit your bitching, Scott."

"Okay!" Stiles hops up and deliberately puts himself between them. "You guys are—seriously." _Seriously!_ Could they just get over their shit already? Or at least fake it like everyone else does.

"Any news from the Sheriff's Department?" Derek asks, propping his bare feet up on the stool Stiles recently vacated.

"The popular theory is always mountain lion," says Stiles, with an exhausted shrug. If he could warn his dad somehow, without giving away everyone's secrets or putting his dad in danger, this shit would be a lot easier. "Are we sure it's not just another werewolf?"

"It's not a werewolf," Derek and Isaac state, perfectly synchronized.

"If you say so." Stiles shoves at Derek's feet and sits back down. "It would be great if it was, though. Because we already know how to deal with that," he explains when the others frown at him.

Derek sighs, getting ready to say something dismissive and imperious (Stiles can tell by the way he his rolls shoulders) but is cut off by the phone on the kitchen wall ringing. Derek slides off his stool to go answer it. And who even has a landline anymore?

"Hale residence," Derek greets in a dull monotone. Then his shoulders tighten, back aligning in adamantine rigidity. He glances at Stiles. "I—yes. Yes, he is." He wraps one arm around his bare chest, hunching forward as though to make himself smaller, or invisible. "I am aware of that, sir."

Scott, Isaac, and Boyd have all sat up to attention, too, and goddamnit Stiles hates not having super wolf hearing sometimes. Derek's nodding even though whoever it is (and Stiles has a good idea now) can't see him. Then he turns and holds the phone out.

"Stiles, it's for you."

He goes over to take it and bring it up to his ear. "Hel—"

"I've been trying to call you all afternoon," his dad sighs down the line.

"Dad?" Stiles looks up at Derek, who mouths, _'Why is your phone off?'_ at him, with the angry eyebrows and the teeth.

"Then I tried Scott, no answer. Called Melissa. I even tried Allison and Lydia Martin," his dad says, wearily. "And then I thought to myself, no, he wouldn't, but of course, there you are." Stiles hates that resigned note in his dad's voice and he never knows what to say to fix it.

"Scott's here, too," is the first thing that comes to mind.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Yes?"

His dad sighs again. "Put Derek back on the phone."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Stiles stares at the phone, then passes it back to Derek. "Um, he wants to talk to you again." Derek backs away like the _phone_ is the thing with fangs, but then he slumps and takes it.

"Sheriff?" And it is so unfair that Stiles is the only one in the room that can't hear both sides of this conversation. "Yes, Scott's here. Did you want to speak with him?" Derek asks with so much hope in his voice. "They're just… sitting in my living room. I only got home from work half an hour ago."

There's a long part where Derek is silent and just nods a lot (And, for real, he _can't see that over the phone!_ ) then Isaac snorts really loudly and hides his mouth in his hand to smother his laughter. Even Boyd's invariably placid façade cracks into a little huff and a smile. Scott's eyes are just continually widening like a cartoon — Stiles is afraid they're going to pop out.

He glances back at Derek, who looks like he's trying to collapse into himself and wink out of existence. Stiles can't see his face, but the tips of his ears and back of his neck are bright red.

Then Derek says, "Of course, sir, I will let them know," and hangs up.

He stands there for a long time with one hand still on the phone mounted on the wall and his head hanging low. Stiles turns back to the others on the couch and none of them are looking at anyone either. He snaps his fingers to get Scott's attention, and mouths _'What? What?!'_

Scott shakes his head. Stiles flails his arms at Derek, then at the others, and holds his hands out in a _'C'mon, man!'_ Scott shakes his head harder, lips sucked in between his teeth. Stiles tries again, and they have a very loud silent argument, until Derek wheels around to face them. Stiles drops his arms to his sides.

"I am to inform you both—" Derek stops, runs his hands through his hair. "All, I suppose, considering you are all underage here, that a nine o'clock curfew begins tonight, which means you will all be safe in your own homes before sundown. Or else."

"He can't _really_ arrest you if we're not," Isaac says, still smirking.

"Is that what my dad said?!" Stiles rocks his stool back on two legs and nearly falls over. Derek steadies him with one hand, but doesn't deign to answer. "Because he could. And he so, _so_ would."

"I bet he's gonna do worse than that," Isaac snickers, and Boyd actually laughs out loud, a great big guffaw. Scott's just not looking at anybody. Derek's giving all three of them the Alpha death-ray eyes. Stiles leaps off his stool into the middle of the room.

"Oh my god would someone please just tell me—"

"Nope!" Scott yells, covering his ears. Isaac and Boyd are openly laughing all over each other now.

"Everyone. Go. Home," Derek growls so loudly it actually, _literally_ shakes the walls and furniture. The betas all wince; even Stiles takes a step back, wanting to cower. The reverberations stop and the room falls completely silent.

"But… what're we supposed to do?" Scott asks, uncovering his ears. "Someone has to find this thing and stop it before it kills more people."

"Well you three obviously can't track it," Derek says, looking scornful and commanding even though he's standing there half-naked. No fangs or claws out, but his eyes still blaze.

"Maybe we should just leave this one to the Argents," Scott suggests, and he's not saying it defiantly, either. Huh, progress. Stiles approves.

"Has Allison said anything?" he asks. While Stiles generally likes the idea of having the Argents 'on their side' so to speak, and the thought of a real live adult being there to help take care of things (Peter never counted as an adult, and he's gone now anyway so it doesn't matter), he still doesn't always trust them. Not Chris, sometimes not even Allison. He knows Derek won't trust them, and Isaac and Boyd are still wary around her.

"I haven't seen her today," Scott says. Then he looks pointedly at Derek. "I was at work, _too_."

"I've already been in contact with Chris Argent," Derek says, and everyone looks suitably shocked. Except for Boyd. "It was part of our deal. I had to let him know that it wasn't any of mine."

Scott opens his mouth, but snaps it shut again.

"Deaton's still away on his... whatever. Retreat thing?" asks Derek, and Scott nods. "We can't find something if we don't even know what we're looking for. So all of you, just go home."

Scott folds his arms. "How are you so relaxed about this? Since it's not one of your betas, and therefore not your fault, it's all of a sudden not your problem?"

"I'm not—" Derek's jaw clenches. "Look, I'm not working tonight, I can go take another look around town."

"You shouldn't go alone," says Isaac.

"Well, I'll have to since all of you have a curfew now."

"You know, that curfew is actually for everyone in the town who isn't out because they have to be — like people who are working," Stiles points out. "Besides, we had no luck keeping up with it last night, and I kind of don't even want to know what's too fast for a werewolf, but we should probably narrow it down before we try to find it again. You basically just said that yourself."

"Which is why I told you all to _go home_ ," Derek grits out, and he's starting to look a little fangy now. "Scott's the one that—"

"Right. Exactly," Stiles cuts him off because they are so, so not getting into it again. "Everyone's got their copies of the bestiary—" They damn well better, that thing was a bitch to translate (so said Lydia, since she did most of the work). "Derek's got whatever, uh, whatever Peter left. So, everybody has homework tonight." Stiles fully expects some grumbling and protests, but the others are silent and Derek just nods.

"Okay. Now get out," Derek says, ushering them all to the door. He pauses, eyes flickering away. "Stiles, your—your dad wants you to meet him at his office."

Boyd and Isaac burst out laughing again, passing them on their way out to the street. Scott just pats him on the back.

Stiles droops. "You guys all suck."

"And keep your phones on," Derek calls after them.

 

* * *

 

Scott drives them in his mom's car to the sheriff's office, and, instead of just dropping Stiles off, he volunteers to go in with him because sometimes Scott is the actual best person in the entire world.

From behind his big desk, his dad just lets out a sigh when they walk in. "Scott," he acknowledges him with a nod.

"Sheriff." Scott scuffs his toe into the floor and stuffs his hands in his pockets, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. It's pretty much exactly how he'd looked when he and Stiles were ten and got caught anywhere they weren't supposed to be. Some things people just never grow out of.

"If you think Scott being here is going to deter me from having this conversation," his dad says, "you are wrong."

"We really don't need to have a conversation," Stiles tries.

"Oh, but we really, really do." His dad eyes him hard, then leans back in his chair. "And it's long past time, I think. Sit."

"Dad, please—"

His dad just points at one of the chairs across from him, giving him the stern face until he drops into a seat. "Scott, in or out, but either way, shut the door."

Scott shuffles his feet on the threshold, indecisively, but ultimately he pushes the door closed and sits in the chair next to Stiles. This is why Scott is his best friend. Because he knows. Whatever conversation just happened on the phone with Derek, Scott got to hear both sides of; he knows what's coming and exactly how uncomfortable it's going to be. And still he stays to stick this out with Stiles.

"Do I have to start?" his dad asks, with not even a glance in Scott's direction. Stiles looks down at his feet and hears his dad sigh that same old sigh. "Fine. There have to be ground rules, Stiles. Look, I understand why you felt you had to hide this from me."

Stiles only just stops himself from laughing because _'oh god, Dad, you have no idea!'_ He peeks at Scott out of the corner of his eye, and Scott's peeking back from under the flop of his hair, making a face like _'yeah, man.'_

"I know that you're almost eighteen," his dad continues, "and I know that you're more than capable of taking care of yourself. But in the eyes of the law, you are still a kid. And in the eyes of your father, you will always be my responsibility."

His dad's chair creaks with the shift of his weight and Stiles finally looks up to meet his eyes. He looks tired.

"I know I haven't been… around as much as I should be," his dad says, lines in his forehead creasing impossibly deeper.

Stiles sinks lower in his chair. He is the worst. Seriously, just the worst son ever. Those lines on his dad's face? He put those there. That frown? His doing. The way his dad is looking at him again, like he had all sophomore year? Like he's a stranger? He did that.

There are times when he wants to scream, _'Werewolves! Werewolves! We're surrounded by werewolves!'_ But he can't. The words barely make sense in his head; how can he say them out loud to his dad? Even if his dad didn't have a heart attack from shock, would knowing the truth really make him feel better? Safer? Less worried? No. Stiles has seen the strain it's put on Ms. McCall — the tightness around her eyes, the shake in her voice when she tells Scott she loves him whenever he leaves the house these days.

Maybe it's helped Scott's relationship with his mom, not having to lie. Maybe they're closer than ever because they can share this. Maybe she _doesn't_ look at Scott like she doesn't recognize him.

But Stiles's dad has enough to deal with.

"Dad, what're you talking about? I see you all the time. You're always there when I need you." Stiles scratches at the back of his head, trying to maintain eye contact but mostly looking off to his father's left shoulder.

"You stopped talking about Lydia Martin a good ten months ago," his dad says in return, and Stiles does meet his eye then in surprise. "In that time, you pointedly haven't talked about Derek at all, even though I know you've been spending time with him, and you go still whenever his name is mentioned."

"I don't—" Stiles pauses, looks at Scott, silently asking _'do I?'_ Scott shrugs and gives him a _'kind of'_ face.

"I notice things, even if I can't always be there." His dad steeples his fingers over the desk, leaning forward on his elbows. "And Charlotte on the front desk has pointed it out many times, so believe me when I say I am well aware that Derek is a very attractive man."

Stiles keeps his eyes from bugging out by burying his head in his hands, and releases a strangled cry. 

"So, rules," says his dad, utterly ignoring his complete and total humiliation. "First off, when you're grounded that means you are confined to the house, no exceptions. School's out, so you don't need to be anywhere. Second, when the grounding period is over — which won't be for a _while_ , by the way — you will be home by eleven. Every night, no matter what. And ten on school nights. If this is still… going on when you're back in school, which I'm guessing it will be."

"Oh my god," Stiles mutters, still hiding in the sanctuary of his own arms. This situation is not helped by the stuttered snorts coming from Scott's general direction. Unable to take anymore, Stiles bursts from his seat, limbs flinging every which way. "Dad, seriously, this is really, totally, just completely unnecessary."

"I haven't even gotten to the safety portion, yet. I know you took sex ed—"

" _Oh my god no!_ No. And no." Stiles points his rigid finger at his dad, then at Scott for good measure because he's just sitting there with a hand clamped over his mouth and that's not covering the laughter at all. "Just no. Dad, come on. I am not…" Stiles flaps his hands, fingers wriggling. "With Derek. Why can no one see how ridiculous and impossible that is?"

Stiles collapses back down into his chair. Just. Fed up. Silence swells, clogging the air around them. He can feel Scott fidgeting next to him, and the heavy weight of his dad's gaze.

"Then what were you doing over there?" his dad asks. His voice is firm, but his eyes are always his tell, weary and worn out. He expects a lie.

"Wha…we…" Stiles's mouth is opening and making sounds, but he has zero words.

"Colleges!" Scott says suddenly and overly loud, bouncing forward in his chair. "We were talking about colleges. On the east coast. Because that's where Derek went."

"Did he?" slips from Stiles's slack mouth. Then he shakes himself, and straightens up. "I mean, he did. Yes. Derek was just… telling us what it was like. What to expect. You know, to help with the whole decision-making process… and stuff?"

"Colleges," his dad repeats. The word could not sound any more dubious.

"Yeah." Stiles nods excessively. He feels like his head's about to fall off. "Lots of great schools over there, but it's, um, far away? And… culture shock?" Stiles chews on his thumbnail until he tastes blood. He wishes he'd worn a hoodie or something, anything with long sleeves even though it's nearly full-on summer and getting to be hot as balls out. Sleeves are very chewable.

His dad looks back and forth between them, not saying another word, and if Stiles can barely withstand the unyielding silence tactic then Scott is hopeless. His dad's eyes finally settle on Scott and, damn, he's gonna crack. Stiles sends out concentrated _'stay strong, man'_ vibes. Scott sucks his lips in and even manages to keep eye contact.

The thing is, his dad knows he's lying. His dad has _always_ known he was lying. He's only been letting Stiles get away with it so long because… Stiles has no idea. No, seriously. He has _no idea_. His dad has always cracked him in the past. Sometimes he'd even busted him on accident because Stiles just couldn't keep his mouth shut. But, one way or another, his dad has never just… not gotten the truth out of him. He's not one to let a puzzle go unsolved.

Like father, like son.

"Funny, Hale didn't mention that on the phone," his dad finally says. But he's stopped giving Scott the hairy eyeball, and that reminds Stiles.

"Why do you even have his number?" he asks.

"He's listed. And we tend to keep tabs on persons of interest." That makes sense. "Alright, both of you get out of here. Straight home. I'm calling the house in ten minutes, if you don't answer it—"

"I will!" Stiles stands up so quickly the chair rocks back a little. He and Scott hurry to the door to pull it open and end up tripping over each other.

"Scott can stay the night, if he wants. Remember there's a curfew."

Pausing in the doorway, Scott already halfway down the corridor, Stiles asks, "What did you say to him? On the phone?" He gets an arched eyebrow and silence in reply. "Yeah, okay. I'll see you later." He leaves and starts to pull the door closed behind him.

"Stiles," his dad calls out. Stiles pops his head back in to give him a questioning look. "You can talk to me, you know? You can _always_ talk to me."

His dad looks tired again, the determined set of his features sliding toward fatigue. Stiles knows that, relatively speaking, his father is not old, but at this moment he looks weathered and every minute of his forty-seven years.

So, no, Stiles really doesn't want to add any more to that.

"Yeah, Dad. I know."

 

* * *

 

Scott laughs his ass off all the way back to Stiles's house because he is a terrible human being. Werewolf. Person.

"I wouldn't laugh," Scott says, still laughing, "but it's really funny."

"You know, Allison's been eighteen for months. You are the one who's jailbait right now."

Scott just laughs more, then he gets a dreamy look on his face. Sometimes Scott is like the dog from _Up_ — he's sweet and loveable, always trying to do the right thing, and he can be very astute and perceptive, intelligent even, but he's easily distracted. Just replace _'Squirrel!'_ with _'Allison!'_

"Your dad was pretty cool about the whole thing. Considering," Scott says as they make their way into the house, heading straight for Stiles's room.

"The whole thing that isn't even an actual thing?" Stiles says, grabbing his laptop and booting it up.

"Um…"

"What?"

"Nothing," says Scott, making himself comfortable on the floor with a mountain of pillows. "It's just... well, while your dad was interrogating him on the phone — and he totally was — Derek didn't deny any of it."

Scott watches him carefully, out of the corners of his eyes like he's being sly. Scott is many things, but sly ain't one. Stiles tosses a book at him. It does make him think, though. During all that, embarrassing as it was, his dad hadn't once told him that he _wasn't allowed_ to see Derek anymore.

Huh.

He heats up some leftovers, and they eat while combing through endless Google results and books. It's a lot of sifting through folklore to find the kernel of truth. Scott's not the best researcher, but it's nice to have him around for entertainment purposes. Large parts of the bestiary are _super boring_ , so it's fun to have someone there to actually laugh at Stiles's commentary. Also, some of it is really nasty. History is definitely written by the victors. Or, well, bestiaries are written by people who don't consider themselves the beasts. Half the time it's difficult to tell which parts are fact and which are exaggerated hunter overcompensation.

Later, after his dad's come home and Scott has passed out on the floor of his bedroom, Stiles gets a group text from Derek: `All quiet`

"On the werewolf front," Stiles finishes out loud because he can't help himself, and goes to bed.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Stiles gets the call from the garage letting him know his Jeep is ready and that he's out an obscene amount of money. It's just his luck that when he bikes himself over his dad is already there. Talking with Derek.

_Shitbears._

So, technically Stiles is still grounded and not supposed to be out of the house, but he has a legitimate reason for being here so his dad can't get mad, right? Probably, yeah. He's going in.

He catches the tail end of his dad's question as he slowly moves closer.

"…and it was two days ago the last time you saw him?"

"Yeah, in the afternoon," Derek replies. "I left at four, so maybe about an hour before that. I think he was working the rest of the evening. And Stiles is here." Derek looks directly at him then, and his dad turns around frowning, brow wrinkled, and mouth opening for some serious telling off.

"They called about my Jeep!" Stiles says before his dad can make a sound. "Did they call you, too? No, why would they do that? They wouldn't. So, what happened? Who died? Wait, did someone die?"

"Drew," Derek says. "The manager at the grocery store." Then he glances at the sheriff, like he's not sure he was supposed to say that.

"What? The one that gave you the job?" asks Stiles. "The one that liked you and said you were a good worker?"

"Yeah." Derek nods, surreptitiously sending looks toward the sheriff who’s studying them both. "Sometime last night, he was attacked."

" _Attacked_ attacked? Just like, uh, like the other guy?" How had Stiles missed hearing about that? His dad's getting stealthy with this 'keeping him out of police business' business.

Derek remains silent, drawing back and openly deferring to the sheriff next to him, but his eyebrows say it's probably related. Stiles's dad says with actual words, "Not quite like the last one. He was mauled, but the scene was… very clean. And you know I can't be discussing this with you."

"Yeah, I know the drill. Wait, and you're here asking Derek about it because…" Stiles flails at his dad. "He didn't do it!"

"No one was saying he did—"

"He was with me!" Stiles blurts. "You can't arrest him. Alibi. Boom."

His father looks about three seconds away from becoming a face-palming.gif. Derek is glaring at him.

"I was in BV," Derek says through his teeth. "There are witnesses, and I think the bar has a security camera. Which the sheriff already knows."

Oh. 

"Oh. Yeah, no, that's way better," Stiles says, nodding at them both. Anything worth going to in Beacon Valley is a good forty-minute drive from here. Not that Stiles ever goes out that way; it's mostly full of tourist traps and— "You went to a bar?" he asks Derek with extreme disbelief.

"Some of the guys asked me to go get drinks with them."

"You know guys?"

"Just Tom and his friends." Derek shrugs, but his arms are still crossed over his chest and his shoulders are tense.

"You went for drinks? With people?"

"Stiles." And that's his dad's impatient voice.

"Sorry!" It's just weird, imagining Derek with people. Drinking. In a bar. _With people._ "Wait, so what are you doing here then?" he asks his dad.

"Just trying to put a timeline of events together with the last people that saw him before—" His dad stops, eyes narrowing at him. "And what are you doing out of the house?"

"Pick up my Jeep, like I said."

"You could have just called me and told me it was ready."

"I… didn't want to bother you while you're working?" Stiles wishes he knew how Scott did the puppy eyes. "But since I'm already here—"

"Keys," his dad says, holding out his hand.

"What?"

"You're still grounded. That means no car privileges. Keys."

"We've got 'em here," Derek says, starting to back away. "I'll just pull it around for you, Sheriff."

"Actually, Derek, hold off on that. I'm going to have to get someone to come by later and pick it up." His dad puts a hand over Stiles's mouth before he can protest that he's _already here_ to pick it up. "Let's just get the paperwork all settled now."

"Sure thing." Derek goes back to the desk and starts picking through file folders.

"Then, Stiles, I think Derek can drive you home," his dad says, like he's being magnanimous, like he's doing them a _favor_. "Whenever you're ready to knock off, that is. Is that alright, Mr. Hale?"

"I—" Derek's eyes are wide, blinking back and forth between them. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent." His dad's smile is evil. _Evil._ He squeezes the back of Stiles's neck, tugging him close. "You're a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, aren't you? Got you working all over town. Tell me, what did you major in? When you were in college."

"My…" Derek's brow furrows; it's almost like confusion, but Stiles has learned that that's his _'I'm wary but I don't understand why'_ face. "I never decided on a major. I took some classes at community college for a while before, um." Derek looks away, clears his throat. "But I didn't get the chance to finish."

His dad gives Stiles his patented _'you've been had'_ look, which, yes, obviously he's been caught in his lie, but how is _this_ the first conclusion his father jumps to? Sometimes — most of the time — Stiles just doesn't understand anything about anything.

 

* * *

 

He had to leave his bike in the back of the Jeep because it wouldn't fit in Derek's car. He'd also had to wait around another two hours for Derek to finish his shift. When Derek wasn't busy doing whatever he did to people's vehicles, or talking with customers, he sat at the front desk and entered data into the computer. Talking messed up Derek's typing, so it was an excruciating two hours. Stiles even offered to do the data entry _for_ Derek if it meant he didn't have to sit there and keep his mouth shut. Derek had glared at him and, if Stiles wasn't mistaken, looked offended at the suggestion. (It's not like Stiles was implying that Derek couldn't do his own job. He wasn't! He was just really, really bored.) Between file entries, they did try to discuss the _thing_ (quietly and discreetly so Derek's coworkers wouldn't hear) but neither of them, nor any of the others, had really gotten anywhere with their research.

Now they're driving in Derek's Camaro, and don't get him wrong, Stiles really _likes_ the Camaro, but his very own car was _right there_ ready to go. His dad seriously couldn't trust him to take it directly home?

Which… yeah, that's valid. And it sucks.

"It's only because he cares about you," Derek says, and Stiles realizes he's been grumbling out loud. Also? Way to make him feel even more guilty. Seriously, when did Derek become the voice of reason?

The car makes a turn, heading toward the center of town, and Stiles starts paying attention to his surroundings. "Uh, this isn't the way to my house." 

"I need to make a quick stop."

"Okay." Stiles sits back in his seat. "But it's your ass on the line. He meant straight home, man."

Derek sighs, one of those epic, _epic_ sighs. "I guess I can drop you off first."

"No, no, no, c'mon, I was kidding. I'm confined to the house for the rest of forever, it's cool if we take the scenic route. Hey, hey, we should totally stop for fries and chocolate shakes."

"So that when your dad does catch us it will look like we're on an actual date?" Derek says, but he's parking the car so Stiles guesses he won. He feels his cheeks grow warm, though, at the implication. He chooses to ignore it and he really hopes Derek will, too.

"Dude, he probably expects we're, like, making out right now. You saw his face when he told you to take me home."

"Yeah. Why isn't he arresting me for that?" Derek gets out of the car quickly, and Stiles fumbles with his seatbelt and door in a hurry to follow.

"I told you he wouldn’t."

Derek gives him a long, searching look, but doesn't say anything further. He slips his sunglasses over his eyes and starts off down the sidewalk. Stiles has no clue where they're going, but he's curious to see what a Derek Hale type errand entails.

They end up at the hardware store. Derek moves swiftly through the aisles, clearly on a mission, and Stiles does his best to keep up. He gets distracted watching a guy pile boxes of flooring tiles onto a dolly, higher and higher, and that... that is going to end in tears, Stiles just knows it. He reaches out to snag Derek and show him this comical potential tragedy, but of course Derek is _gone_. Annoyed, Stiles scurries through the store checking down every aisle he passes until he finally finds Derek standing in front of a tall rack and picking through different types of chains.

"Whoa. What the hell are those for?" Stiles asks, coming to a stop next to him.

Derek glances around them before answering. "If we find this thing, we'll have to do something with it."

"Well, sure, but I figured you'd just… you know." He makes a cutting motion across his throat. Derek stands very still, just watching him, until the creeping need to move makes Stiles twitch. He keeps himself from squirming, though, and Derek looks away.

"If it is like the Kanim—like Jackson was, in any way, then it's not…" Derek's mouth thins, and he leans closer to Stiles. "There's still a person in there, right?"

And... wow. Stiles hadn't thought about that very closely. He thinks, maybe, he stopped allowing himself to have those kinds of thoughts. It was easier, made sense, to compartmentalize this stuff. To think of it as some _thing_ killing people. Not some _one_.

Stiles could've been one of those hunters writing in the bestiary. _'There was a monster. Killed it. End of story.'_

But sometime in the last year, Derek had changed. Killing and/or biting his problems stopped being his go-to solution. Even threats of bodily harm had lessened. Not disappeared, let's be real, but they're few and far between these days. And he only means it about... thirty percent of the time. To be truthful, Derek hasn't ever actually killed anyone that Stiles knows of (besides Peter, and they all had a hand in that). If this shifter is like Jackson was, then he might not even be aware of what he's doing. Stiles doesn't know how, or if, they'll be able to help this person, but, yeah, they should certainly try.

"Will that hold it?" he asks, indicating the chains.

Derek shrugs. "I can test them out. It's faster than me, but we don't know if it's stronger."

"Maybe we should just assume stronger? You know, better safe than slaughtered." 

Derek just nods and reaches for the thickest chains. Stiles doesn't know what happened to the ones he bought when Scott first turned. What was left of Derek's own family's things must've been lost when the house finally collapsed in on itself — three floors and the roof all caved in right down to the basement. The county finally hauled the rubble away and filled in the lot; the land was integrated into the nature preserve. Fortunately, they haven't really had need of a place to contain out-of-control werewolves (or other things) lately, but it does present a problem. Stiles knows that standard police issue handcuffs won't hold a werewolf, and the suburbs are terrible places to lock people up.

"Are we doing this in your apartment?" he asks. "I mean, could get messy. Also, what would you attach these to? Do you have shackles? Where do you even buy shackles these days?"

"Um," someone squeaks behind them. He and Derek both turn as one. Molly Mcguinty is standing there, watching them curiously. "Don't mind me," she says, raising both hands in the universal _'I come in peace.'_

That's when Stiles sees her hands and arms and clothes and face are smeared with thick red splatters. "Are you alright?"

"What?" She seems to just notice her hands then. "Oh! It's paint." She wipes her hands on her stained jeans, but it's mostly already dry. "Oh my god I look like a serial killer, no wonder people rushed to get out of my way," Molly says, looking down at herself.

In his peripheral vision Stiles sees Derek not-so-subtly sniffing the air. He must decide that, yes, it is paint because he doesn't get growly, though he is standing more stiffly than just a minute ago.

"Ugh," Molly groans, giving up trying to wipe her hands. "We're making these giant papier-mâché hearts — yes, it's exactly as tacky as it sounds, but Mom never got the big, elaborate wedding before, so…" She waves one red-stained hand. "Anyway, I ran out of papier-mâché and I figured while I was out I'd get some rope or something to hang them with and I have no idea what I'm even looking for, seriously, this whole wedding thing is driving me insane, I want to strangle everyone. Sorry. Hi!" She takes a big breath and lets her shoulders sag.

That was another thing Stiles always liked about Molly Mcguinty — she could ramble almost as well as him.

"I think the rope is one aisle over," Derek says. He sounds off. Not rude exactly, or even unpleasant, but… defensive? Stiles can't quite put his finger on it. Molly doesn't seem to notice (or she just thinks that's how Derek always is, and who could blame her?).

"Maybe this would work better?" she says, stepping around Stiles to look at the rack of different types of chain. "The things are heavier than I anticipated. Like, we couldn't just get heart-shaped balloons or something? Mom originally wanted them made out of flower arrangements but we already ordered the others before she got this idea and then the flower guy—"

She slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes going wide. The hand slides down her chin and falls away. "Oh my god I'm an awful person. Here I am whining about… and—I knew him. Sort of. And his family… I suggested postponing. I mean, that can't be a good omen, right? We should at least send—" She bites her lip. "F-flowers."

Molly tips her head back, eyes on the ceiling and her mouth open in horror at her own blunder. Stiles kind of wants to laugh. He holds it in, though. Mostly. Maybe an inelegant snort escapes. He can't keep his mouth straight, either. Derek's eyes are all judge-y behind his shades, Stiles just knows it, but Molly finally looks back at him.

"We are terrible," she says.

"I've learned to accept it," Stiles replies.

"It's a little bit scary, though, if there's a rabid cougar roaming the town."

"Rabid cougar?"

"That's what people are saying." Molly pushes one stray, stringy curl out of her face. Her hair is streaked with red paint, too. "Rabid or not, there's definitely a wild animal out there. Killed a raccoon or something in my mom's front yard. Carnage everywhere, and there was a blood trail all the way up to the porch. It was disgusting."

"Did you report it?" Derek asks.

"I don't know if they did, or not." She wrinkles her nose. "Phil's gone, like, way protective, though. He's taken to escorting Mom everywhere, not letting her out of his sight. She thinks it's charming and chivalrous. I think it's a little... But whatever, I'm not marrying him. He also bought a shotgun he keeps next to him in the house at all times. Like a mountain lion is going to break into the house, right?"

Stiles and Derek exchange a look. He wonders if he should mention that there's been another death, but if the news isn't out yet then the Sheriff's Department has a reason for that. Even if they're looking in the wrong places, Stiles knows enough not to muddle an investigation.

"Uh, we should probably…" Stiles jerks a thumb over his shoulder, tries to smile apologetically to her.

"Oh yeah, I'll let you two get back to your… shopping." She eyes them both, and the chains in Derek's basket, her mouth going crooked, corners curving upward.

"Oh," Stiles says. "No, it's not—"

"Stiles. Let's go." Derek grabs him by the arm and starts to drag him away.

"Wait, but—" Stiles stumbles all the way to the checkout lane until Derek finally lets him go. "Well let's hope _that_ doesn't get back to my dad."

 

* * *

 

Scott and Isaac are sitting on the front step when Derek pulls up in front of Stiles's house, and Boyd shows up before Stiles can even make it up the walk. Derek had planned on just dropping him off but, seeing his pack, he trails behind Stiles and carries their trash from his car.

"What's going on?" asks Stiles, juggling his half-full milkshake in one hand to get his door key with the other.

"We're here to ask you that," Scott replies, standing up and dusting off his shorts. "Isaac heard someone else was killed."

"How? We just learned about it a few hours ago." Stiles unlocks his front door and hustles everyone inside. This is not a conversation to be having in his front yard.

"I have ways," Isaac says, mysteriously, with a little twist of his lips. Nobody else that Stiles knows can switch from vulnerable bunny rabbit to, well, _Holy Grail_ bunny rabbit in the blink of an eye. It's like if Scott (adorable) and Derek (terrifying) had a fluffy wolf baby.

Stiles leads them all into the kitchen where he pulls the garbage can from under the sink so Derek can toss the empty fast food bags.

"Did you guys go out to eat?" Scott asks, nose crinkling.

"No," Stiles says. "We just grabbed something on the way back here."

Derek ate _two_ cheeseburgers to Stiles's one, and half his carton of fries, all in the car on the way here, less than a ten-minute drive. Stiles was kind of impressed at the time. Impressed and happy. Now he's… discomfited. And, for some reason, he doesn't want the others asking about it.

"Anyway," he says, sliding into a chair at the table. "What do you guys know?"

"Just that this is the second death and we're still no closer to finding this thing," says Scott, sitting opposite him.

"It would help if we had more to go on." Stiles drums his fingers on the table. "Nothing's come up in the bestiary, yet. Like Derek said before, there were a few hits on shifters that shed skin, but it seemed to indicate they could copy or imitate different humans — which, by the way, I'm hoping is not a real thing because wow, the nightmares — but nothing that turns into animals or animal-like creatures with the claws and the venom-y stuff. Honestly, guys, I'm swinging back towards aliens."

"Plus it's just killing at random," Isaac adds, taking the chair to Scott's left.

"What if it's not," Boyd says, his voice quiet and calm. Derek always takes note when Boyd speaks up, Stiles has noticed, and this time is no different.

"Not random, you mean," Derek says.

"But usually these things are coming after us," Scott says. "None of us even knew the guys that were killed."

"Derek did," Stiles says automatically. Everyone turns to look at him, then at Derek who crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrows going low over his eyes.

"Barely. The one last night, yeah, he was my boss, and he was a good guy, but I couldn't say I really knew him. And the other one, I didn't even know his name until..." Derek trails off, wearing his thinky face. (Stiles loves and hates that face. Loves because it's kind of cute — in a completely funny and not attractive way. And hates because nothing good ever comes from it.) 

"So it all comes down to Derek then," says Scott.

"He just said he didn't really know them," Isaac says. It's always interesting to see how Isaac oscillates between Scott and Derek. He hangs with Scott more, but he probably defends Derek the most out of any of them.

"Two victims isn't a pattern," Stiles tells them. He glances at Derek, who is still silently thinking off to the side.

"But you're forgetting the first attack on Isaac," Scott says. "Another connection to Derek."

"That wasn't a deliberate attack, though. I told you guys, I just happened upon it, following the scent trail of those animals it shredded."

"Animals," Derek says almost too quietly to hear. His gaze sharpens and he stands up straighter, capturing everyone's attention. "We know it's a shapeshifter — even if we don't know what kind — but we're forgetting that one of its shapes still has to be human."

"We find the person, we find the shifter," says Boyd, and Derek nods.

"How?" Scott asks. "The thing is pretty untraceable in its shifted form; how are we supposed to find it as a human? I mean, wouldn't we have known if there were other shifters in the area? At the very least, the Argents and their people would be on top of that."

"Maybe someone new in town?" says Isaac.

"There's never anyone new around here," Stiles complains. "We get new people, like, once every ten years."

"Not new then, but someone who recently arrived. Like your friend," Derek says, turning to Stiles. "She just showed up when all this started happening."

"What friend?" Stiles asks, and Derek raises one eyebrow. "Do you mean _Molly_?"

"If what happened with Isaac was purely because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Derek rationalizes, "she's another person that both victims have in common. As well as proximity to animal attacks."

"Molly Mcguinty?" says Scott with a little huff of laughter. "That's a bit of a leap. I mean, she's lived here her whole life. Before she left for college, anyway. She used to babysit us when we were little. Stiles, remember the time she helped us build that giant blanket fort that took over your entire house? That was epic." Scott grins.

"Yes. It was," Stiles says seriously, standing up out of his chair. "Maybe not Trobed levels, but it was pretty sweet. Are you actually insane?" He rounds on Derek.

"She met with Drew several times over the last few days," Derek says slowly. "I told her about the florist, next thing we know he's dead."

"Circumstantial!" Derek is so calm; Stiles can't stand it. "You can't just start accusing people of—of being things. This is so the Kanima all over. You can't _do that_ again, Derek. I thought you were getting better."

"I'm—"

"And it's not like she just showed up out of the blue looking for a murder spree," Stiles cuts him off; he doesn't want to hear anything Derek says right now. "She's here for her mom's wedding. Her mom still lives here. I've known them my whole life. My dad's known Molly since she was born. My parents were good friends with her parents, they would've known if something was weird."

"My parents were good friends with a lot of people in town," Derek says, his face gone completely blank. "None of them ever knew."

"Well that's because… Shut up!" Stiles hates that look on Derek's face. He hasn't actually seen it, directed at him, in kind of a long time. Derek's family will always be a sensitive subject, and Stiles respects that, but it doesn't mean he gets to use that every time he needs to make a point. "Molly is not a monster, she's totally normal and awesome and—"

"And she's been gone for a few years, right?" Derek says, still calm, still blank. "Anything could have happened to her during that time."

"Oh yeah, _anything_." Stiles throws his hands up. "Anything like she suddenly just turns into a bloodthirsty beast?"

"Happened to Scott." Derek's face moves then, just one upward jerk of his eyebrows and back into place. Stiles meets his implacable gaze, trying to see past it. Derek hasn't been like this in so long; he doesn't understand.

"He's… kind of got a point there," Scott interjects sheepishly. He holds his hands up when Stiles turns to glare at him. "Hey, I'm not saying it's her. Just that, you know, anything is possible. And I'm not a bloodthirsty beast."

"I know you aren't," Stiles says, clapping Scott on the shoulder. He turns back to Derek. "This is stupid. It's not her."

"I brought it up as a possibility. One you should take into consideration before dismissing it out of hand," Derek says coolly. "And I didn't call her a monster. Those were your words."

Stiles freezes, a sudden icy punch through his chest. He can feel Scott next to him, watching him, and see Isaac and Boyd standing behind Derek, always at his back. He doesn't think of them like that. As monsters. He doesn't want them thinking he thinks that, either, and he starts to stutter an apology when all four werewolves turn their heads just so.

"What?"

"Your dad's coming home," Scott says, bumping his shoulder.

"Crap." Stiles glances toward the door, even though he can't hear a damn thing. "You guys aren't supposed to be here."

"Too late," says Isaac. "He's already pulling into the driveway."

"We could go out the back window?" suggests Scott.

"Yes!" Stiles nods. "Go!" He starts to herd them in that direction, but Derek doesn't budge. "What are you doing?"

"My car is out front. Pretty sure your dad noticed that," he says.

"He's coming up the walk now," Isaac informs him, sounding far too amused. He, Scott, and Boyd are just waiting there by the window.

"Oh my god you guys go," Stiles hisses, flapping his arms at them. Isaac is the first to leap out. Boyd rolls his eyes, but doesn't complain as he goes. Scott wavers, halfway out, giving Stiles a last long look. "It's good," Stiles tells him. "Go." And Scott disappears through the window.

The front door rattles; Stiles whirls around and seizes Derek by the arm. "New plan!" He drags him into the living room and shoves him down onto the sofa, plopping down beside him and grabbing the remote. He's got the TV on and his feet propped up on the coffee table by the time his dad walks in.

He'll admit it still probably doesn't look good from where his dad is standing; what with Stiles all out of breath and red in the face, and somehow Derek's arm got caught between Stiles and the back of the sofa so they're practically all snuggled up together.

And there's some fishing show playing on the television, which — who even watches this? Nobody. That's who.

"You're home early," Stiles says, and that was not the way to sound innocent.

Very slowly, he leans away from Derek, freeing his trapped arm. Derek doesn't remove it. He is, in fact, sitting very still and staring straight ahead, like he's actually watching the TV. Like he's afraid to move. 

"Dude, his vision isn't movement-based," Stiles whispers to him. Derek releases a breath, nostrils flaring, and pulls his arm away to stand up. The warmth of Derek's body leaves his side and Stiles feels at a loss all of a sudden. He stands next to Derek, facing his dad, still clutching the remote in his hands.

"I see you got my son home in one piece," his dad says, removing his jacket slowly and revealing his sidearm. "Good. Perhaps you'd like to stay for dinner tonight."

Stiles stares wide-eyed at his dad, glances at Derek, then back to his dad.

"I—" Derek looks over at him and Stiles wonders what he's looking for, what he sees. "Thank you for the offer, sir, but I have to be at work soon," Derek says, taking one step closer to the door.

There's a bit of a standoff, before his dad steps aside to let Derek pass. "Another time then," he says as Derek reaches the door. Derek nods, looking relieved, and Stiles remembers that he's angry.

"Hey, we're not done here!" Stiles calls after him. He blocks out his dad's pointed throat-clearing and waits for Derek to turn around and look at him.

"I know," Derek says. "I really do have to go to work, though. I'll—" his gaze flits to the sheriff and back to Stiles, "—call you later. Goodnight." Then he's gone.

His dad is eyeing him carefully. "Everything alright? You look upset."

"I don't want to talk about it," Stiles says, as he passes his father and heads into the kitchen.

"Did he do something to you?"

"What?" Stiles spins around; his dad is waiting behind him, hands on his hips. "No. God, no. He didn't—" Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. "He's just kind of an ass sometimes, isn't he? But I guess so am I, so…" He shrugs, and smiles for his dad. "It's fine. I swear."

"So you and him? It's good?" He's peering at Stiles very closely, and Stiles can't tell which answer he's expecting, which is the right one, which will make his dad happy.

He says, "Yeah, we're good," because what's one more lie?

 

* * *

 

Due to his precarious current position, and a little bit because he feels guilty about getting burgers and fries earlier and then leaving the trash where his dad could find it, Stiles suggests they go out for dinner. His dad brought the Jeep home and he even lets Stiles drive (probably because he's tired, but he'll never admit it). They get chicken tacos at the Taco Hut and eat on the picnic benches outside under green-striped umbrellas.

His dad is looking unbearably smug and downright pleased with himself. Stiles thought this whole Derek thing was _upsetting_ to his dad, but that certainly doesn't seem to be the case now, and Stiles is just not equipped to deal with what that might mean. So he ignores it. Instead, he tries asking about the case — there have to be other leads on the murder, leads that are not Derek and are definitely not Molly because that is _insane_. But his dad keeps dodging him. The man has gotten good at that lately.

"You know you're still grounded, right?" his dad asks out of the blue as they're finishing up.

"Yeah, I figured," Stiles says, confused. He tosses his trash in the barrel and starts heading back to the Jeep.

"Are you noticing that I didn't say anything about Derek being at the house?" his dad goes on, and Stiles stops to turn and face him.

"One might assume that _this_ is you saying something about it."

His dad just lifts one eyebrow at him. "I didn't say anything, even though it's technically against the rules of the grounding."

"You let Scott stay over," he points out, reaching for the door handle. He watches his dad over the top of the Jeep.

"I gave permission for Scott," his dad says. They don't get in yet. "And I figured when I let Derek take you home that you two would…" His eyes stray off across the parking lot and, for the first time since this whole line of questioning began, he actually looks uncomfortable.

Stiles knows the feeling; his cheeks warm instantly, he rubs a hand over his buzzed hair. And it's stupid. Because Derek would never… not with _him_. He could tell his dad that they weren't—they _aren't_ —they haven't done anything, and they never will, and the very idea is just so laughable.

He does laugh then, and his dad gives him a strange look. He could wipe that look off his dad's face with just one not-so-simple truth. But he yanks his door open instead, and slides in behind the steering wheel. His dad's settling into the passenger side, pulling his seatbelt on when there's a growly groan from behind them.

Stiles jumps, banging his head on the roof; his dad reaches for a weapon that isn’t there; and _of course_ Derek Hale is bleeding out in the backseat of his car.

"Oh my god!" Stiles maneuvers around and kneels on his seat so he can lean into the back. "Derek!"

"Jesus, what the hell happened?" asks his dad, shoving in next to him. Derek has both hands pressed to his middle and there's blood welling up around his claws. Yes, he's all claws and fangs and outrageous Elvis sideburns right now. Stiles tries to elbow his way in front of his dad so he won't see.

"No, Dad, don't! I got it."

"Stiles, he's been stabbed. We need to get him to the hospital."

"No!" Stiles shouts, and Derek growls. It sounds more pained than angry. Stiles places his hands over Derek's, but he doesn't know if he should press down or not. "What do I do? Derek? What do I do?" His voice shakes, but he's gotta keep it together.

"Stiles—"

"Dad, he can't go to the hospital, look at him!" _Keep it together. Breathe._ "Deaton. I can take you to Deaton. Derek?"

A gurgling sound escapes Derek's throat, and he rasps, "Not… back. Yet."

"Shit, that's right." Deaton's still out of town, doing his thing. Stiles looks to his left, to his father's pale face and wide eyes. "Okay," Stiles says on a slow exhale.

He nods to himself, to his dad, and fumbles down behind the seat for his duffel bag. He yanks a scratchy, blue towel out and gently nudges Derek's hands out of the way. "This is probably not sanitary, sorry. Dad, here." Stiles grabs his hand and holds it over the towel, putting pressure on.

Derek grunts in pain, his hand coming up and wrapping around the sheriff's forearm. His claws are out, but he doesn't puncture the skin. Noticing his dad's flinch, Stiles pries the fingers off. They curl around his own and he squeezes gently.

"It's okay. He won't hurt you." Stiles isn't sure which of them he's reassuring, but as soon as he's satisfied they'll stay put he whips around and starts the engine. The trip back to the house is short and blurry.

At one point his dad says to him, "Stiles, what am I looking at here?"

And Stiles says, "It's Derek."

 

* * *

 

After having spent much of his childhood watching all these movies and television shows about high school, full of excitement and drama, by the time Stiles reached his sophomore year he felt like high school was kind of a letdown.

And then there were werewolves.

"I knew there was something," his dad says, more to the tumbler of Jack in his hand than to Stiles. "I kept telling myself if I gave you enough time you'd tell me eventually. Never guessed this one, though." He raises the glass and takes another long drink.

"You thought it was just the criminally hot older boyfriend thing, huh?"

His dad side-eyes him. "Not that I was thrilled about that, at first, either."

"At first?" Stiles can't help but ask, but he shakes his head before his dad can respond. "Maybe we should clear that up right now, then."

"So you two aren't…?"

Stiles shakes his head vehemently, a small, incredulous, only marginally bitter laugh escaping him. "We really, really are not, no. I wasn't lying about that." And it feels good to finally be telling the truth, even if it doesn't completely feel true at the moment. "I mean, I guess maybe we are kind of friends?" He looks up with just his eyes to check his dad's expression.

"Well, I should hope so," his dad says, surprising him, "if you're the one he comes to when he's damn near bleeding to death and needs help."

Stiles sucks in a breath at that. Derek hadn't been real clear on just why he showed up in the Jeep. All he'd said was that he went to the nearest safe space he could find. How the parking lot of the Taco Hut is a safe place, Stiles can't figure out, but whatever. He pushes back from the kitchen table to crane his neck around the doorway and peer into the living room. Derek is fast asleep on the couch. Naked. Well, naked but for the bandages wrapped tight around him to hold his guts in, and a clean pair of Beacon County Sheriff's Dept. sweat pants.

"And how often does that happen?" His dad's voice draws Stiles away from watching Derek.

"Not… very?" Stiles answers, chewing his bottom lip. His dad doesn't look happy, or convinced. "Really. He hasn't been hurt like that in months. Almost a year."

"Jesus," his dad whispers, closing his eyes and bowing his head, but it's nothing like a prayer.

Regular old painkillers don't do squat for werewolves; the pain itself pretty much knocked Derek out, Stiles guesses. Would've been helpful if he'd waited to pass out until _after_ they got him out of his blood-soaked clothes and into something clean. Being all up close and personal with a naked, unconscious Derek Hale was… well, in these circumstances, not Stiles's idea of fun.

He's propped up on a bunch of pillows, chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. One arm is slung across his middle as though he's still trying to protect himself. The other is loose by his side. Stiles's eyes follow the pale line in the darkness from Derek's hand to his bare shoulder. Even at rest, even battered and bloody, he looks powerful. Strong.

"I can't believe you actually thought that he would—" Stiles waves his hand. "With me."

"I'm not the only one who—" his dad mutters, but stops when Stiles turns around to look at him. "And what about you? How often have you been hurt because of this… this stuff."

Stiles drums his fingers on the tabletop. He doesn't know how to answer. Or, he _does_ ; he knows he should just tell his dad everything, but Stiles is sure he won't get it.

It's not like he thrives on all the danger. Except for the times when he totally does. Don't get him wrong; he doesn't love being bruised and bloodied and broken on the regular. Though, come to think of it, that hasn't happened so much in recent months. Stiles has actually gone quite a while without getting hit with things. He's gotten very good at ducking and running and hiding. Although, sometimes he fails to do one or all of those things and... and Derek is usually there to cover him. Huh.

But, life-threatening terror aside, Stiles has started to feel like he's part of something important. Like _he's_ important.

"Nothing like that—" he gestures toward Derek on the couch, "has ever happened to me." It's not a lie. The worst beating Stiles ever got wasn't at the hands of something with claws. "Besides, Derek and the others, they look—we look out for each other."

His dad is staring at him, hard. "Others?"

Oh. Oops.

There was no way to cover the sight of Derek's transformation right in front his dad's eyes — that wolf was out of the bag — so Stiles had given him the general background story: werewolves, Hale fire, hunters, etc. But the others… It's not like he wouldn't love to be able to tell his dad everything, get it all off his chest, because as much as he likes to think he can handle himself, as much as he _has_ handled over the past couple years, sometimes he just wants to be a kid, wants nothing more than to give this all over to his dad and believe that he'll fix everything.

But he didn't tell his dad that almost all of the people he hangs out with are werewolves. Because those aren't his secrets to tell.

"Stiles."

"Dad, I can't."

His dad nods. "You're protecting your friends. I understand that. I would've hoped you'd know you didn't have to protect them from _me_." He sighs, and Stiles just lowers his eyes. "So let me guess then. The Lahey kid?" he asks, and Stiles remains silent. "I see him with Derek a lot. And—" His dad looks at him sharply. "The Reyes girl, who disappeared last year, she—"

"No, she's okay! I mean, yeah, she's a…" Stiles takes a deep breath. "She's a werewolf, too, but she's fine. And I think she's happy now." His dad looks at him like he's crazy.

"Jackson Whittemore?"

Stiles winces. That's a longer story that he just doesn't have it in him to tell right now. He goes for the short version. "Yeah, him too. But he's taken care of now. I mean," he adds quickly, eyes going wide, "I mean his birth parents, the ones that, uh, that died when he was a baby, they had a p—uh, some family in the south to take him in. Of werewolves. It was part of their will, and his inheritance. Which he wasn't supposed to get for another few years, but… he's good, he's just not supposed to have contact with Derek for a while. It's a werewolf thing, I dunno. They have weird rules."

"I thought his folks shipped him off to boarding school."

"Yeah, that was the cover story Lydia came up with." Before his dad can even ask, Stiles says, "She's not. She's just a regular human. Just, you know, a million times better than every other human." He smiles wide and his dad's lips curl momentarily, before setting back into a grim line.

"That leaves… Scott?" he asks. Stiles swallows and nods. "Does Melissa—"

"She knows," answers Stiles hastily.

"She knows," his dad repeats, voice flat. "She. Knows." He runs his hands over his face and back through his hair. "How did Scott—how is it all these people just happen to be werewolves in my town all of a sudden?"

Reluctantly, Stiles explains about the bite, how Peter Hale bit Scott and all this started for them. His dad makes him clarify that's the same Peter Hale who was in a coma for years and then just disappeared, and Stiles assures him that he's now gone for good. He explains alphas and betas and how the bite works and that he has absolutely never been bitten by anyone, no sir.

"So Peter Hale was driven mad, murdered a bunch of people, and turned a bunch of others into werewolves," his dad sums up.

"More or less?" says Stiles, twisting his fingers together.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing! No, just. Yeah, that's basically what happened." Stiles tries another smile, but his dad only glares harder. "Just, okay, when Peter… died," he says, tripping over his words, "Derek became the Alpha, and he didn't have a pack, and without a pack apparently you're super weak and vulnerable and easily killed by other things so, technically, Peter only turned Scott."

His dad takes a second, eyes never leaving Stiles, to sort through all that. "You're saying Derek is the one that… _bit_ the rest of them?" he asks, face going red. "He turned those poor kids into monsters—"

"They're not monsters, Dad!" Stiles sits up straight in his seat. "And they chose it."

"They're just kids, Stiles."

"So was he!" Stiles yells, then clamps his mouth shut. He checks on Derek again to see that he's still out, and turns back to face his dad. "He was younger than me when someone, some _person_ , murdered his family and stole everything from him. He had nothing, Dad. No one. And yeah, don’t think we were all happy about him going on a biting spree, believe me, there were words. He knows he messed up, but… he needed people, and they wanted it, and, _god_ , I never thought I'd be defending Derek like this."

Stiles slumps back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. When he looks up again his dad is watching him.

"Really?" he asks, splashing a little more Jack in his glass. "'Cause you’ve been defending him for a while now. Not long after you accused him of murder, even."

"Which he also didn't do, by the way. I feel like I should make that clear," Stiles says, purposefully not addressing the other part. He watches his dad as the man deflates, staring into his drink but not drinking.

"So, I'm guessing there are more werewolves in town, then; ones that really don't like him? Enough to want to tear him open."

"Uh, yeah. About that…" Stiles's fingers twitch on his knees, wriggling into a hole in his jeans. His dad raises an eyebrow at him. Stiles sighs. "That's actually something else."

 

* * *

 

He thought it best to wait for Derek to wake up before trying to go any further with the explanations. Maybe give his dad some more time to process everything, too. Not that a couple hours would be enough for that. He sends a short text to Scott; he tells himself it's to keep Scott apprised of all the new happenings, but it might be because he's freaking out just a little bit. A reply comes a few minutes later, asking if he needs backup, and Stiles decides that, no, he's good. It's probably better not to overwhelm his dad with too many wolves at once. Just seeing the words from Scott eases the tension in his body, enough to relax in the chair beside the sofa. Beside Derek.

Derek hadn't said much while Stiles and his dad cleaned and taped up the slashes all across his abdomen and chest; the few on his arms weren't as deep, but they'd needed cleaning as well, all dripping with viscous venom. He'd said he could heal them, but it would take longer than usual. All of his wounds were on his front because Derek never turns his back to a threat.

Stiles watches him for a while in the shadowy room, not daring to turn on a light. Even in sleep Derek looks otherworldly, a wildness in him that's never quite masked by his human guise. Stiles frowns, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees.

That's not right, either. Humanity isn't a costume that the wolf wears to hide in plain sight, just as the wolf is not a mantle to be taken on and off at will. For Derek they aren't two sides opposing, or balancing, one another; it is all one. It's just him.

"I don't think that about you," Stiles whispers. "You know I don't, right? I mean, Allison's grandfather… I'd call him a monster, and he was just a guy. Maybe he even had reasons for what he did that made perfect sense to him, but I don't care. I don't want to know about that."

He breathes in shallowly, and realizes he's trying to match his breaths to Derek's, a slow in and out, and they sync up for a few short heartbeats.

"I don't think you're a monster, Derek. I'm not even afraid of you anymore," says Stiles so quietly it's barely audible to his own ears. Wolf ears might've heard if the owner of said ears was awake, but he doesn't want to wake Derek.

Maybe he's just trying to put off this inevitable conversation, dragging his dad deeper into a world that, from his perspective, hadn't existed a few hours ago.

Maybe he's just enjoying the quiet. When Derek wakes, everything will be out in the open. No more secrets, no more lies.

 

* * *

 

III. Won't you tell me what you're thinking of?

 

* * *

 

Derek actually sleeps through the night and is still out when Stiles comes down the next morning. One of the old blankets usually stored in the hall closet is covering Derek on the couch — Stiles's dad must have done that before he finally went to bed last night. Derek is lying perfectly still beneath it. Stiles creeps quietly across the floor, and leans over to look more closely. He brings a hand up in front of Derek's face to check that he's still breathing; he feels nothing, but then Derek's nostrils flare as he inhales and his head tips to the side into Stiles's hand.

His eyelashes flutter in miniscule brushes against Stiles's palm, but Derek's eyes never open. It tickles, contrasting with the raspy stubble on Derek's cheek, and Stiles wants to take his hand away but also doesn't at the same time.

The floorboards creak behind him, and he turns to see his dad in the doorway. Stiles snatches his hand back and stands up fast, blurting out, "He's still sleeping."

"Uh-huh." His dad nods. "Is he still bleeding?" He indicates Derek's midsection with his eyes and Stiles follows his gaze, but that part of him is covered with the blanket.

"I didn't look," Stiles says. "But he should be fine. He looks a lot better than he did last night." And that's true, at least. Derek's not nearly as pale, nor is he shaking and gritting his teeth through the pain. His dad watches for a minute longer, then beckons Stiles into the kitchen.

"I'll be going in a little later today than usual," his dad says as he pulls a frying pan out and sets it on the stove. "I'd like to stick around until he's awake, make sure he really is okay." Stiles nods at this, but before he can speak his dad says, "Then, we're all going to have a nice long talk."

Stiles doesn't even bother to react because, yeah, obviously that was coming. He simply goes to the refrigerator to pull out eggs, milk, and butter to help his dad make breakfast. He grabs the turkey sausage out of the drawer at the last second, too — he figures his dad's earned it after last night. Also, maybe he won't be quite as grumpy if Stiles fixes him a hearty breakfast. That goes for Derek, as well.

"Does he eat..." his dad asks, watching Stiles lay out the stuff for French toast.

"What? People food?" Stiles laughs. "Yeah. I mean, since we don't have any Cocoa Puffs." His dad's face creases in confusion, and Stiles just shakes his head and laughs more.

Derek wakes not long after, the smell of food cooking luring him into consciousness. Stiles brings him a plate piled high and Derek looks at it skeptically.

"I could hear your stomach growling from in the kitchen, and I don't have super hearing," Stiles says, setting the plate down on the coffee table. "It sounded way different from your regular growling."

Derek starts to pull himself up, but he recoils and curls inward with a deep groan, hands flying to his stomach.

"Whoa, hang on," Stiles says, bending over him. He gathers the extra throw pillows, and gently stuffs them behind Derek's back while bracing him with one arm. Derek's bare skin feels warm and dry against Stiles's colder hands. He follows the slope of Derek's smooth shoulders up to his neck. Derek shudders and Stiles pulls his hand away, but Derek catches it in his own.

"Thanks," he says, curling his fingers around Stiles's hand and then letting go.

"Sure. Here." Stiles hands him the plate, helps him settle it onto his lap without dumping it over, and sits on the coffee table to face him. "So, like, my dad wants to talk to you. How much of last night do you remember?" he whispers. He's not sure why he's whispering.

"Everything. Enough." Derek spears a piece of sausage on his fork and bites into it. "Turkey?" he asks through a mouthful, still chewing.

"It's less greasy."

"It's still pretty high in cholesterol," Derek says. "Don't you have, like, an approved diet from his doctor or something?"

Stiles scratches the back of his head, averting his eyes. "No. The doctors say he's fine, but what do they know?" Derek snorts through his nose, but there's an almost smile on his face, as though he understands this perfectly. "Anyway, you were all grrr—" Stiles makes his best fang-y face. "Last night, and he saw you, so, you know, he knows. Pretty much everything. And everyone. Except for Boyd," he adds, lowering his voice. "He guessed the others, but I figure it's up to Boyd if he wants anyone to know."

Derek nods approvingly at this. "I heard some of your explanation. He seemed to take it well?"

"Eh…" Stiles hunches his shoulders. "He's calm in a crisis; makes it hard to tell how he's really reacting to something."

Derek studies him for a moment, eyes roving over his face. "That makes sense," he says judiciously. Stiles fidgets under the scrutiny until Derek goes back to his breakfast, mopping up the syrup with his French toast and swirling the last of his sausage through the dregs.

"Oh, also," Stiles says, voice going even quieter, "I cleared up that whole—" He sweeps his hand through the air between them. "You know. _Thing_. Between us. I mean, what he thought. So, that's all. Good." He sucks his cheek in and chews it, watching Derek's face, the downward scrunch of his eyebrows, the bob of his throat as he swallows his last bite.

"Oh," Derek says, glancing at Stiles too quickly. "Okay."

"Yeah." Stiles looks down at his hands, a peculiar sense of loss welling within him. It's stupid, really, and he _feels_ stupid for feeling it.

His dad picks that moment to come in, saving them all from the potential verbal diarrhea Stiles knows would surge forth to fill this silence. His dad takes a seat on the other end of the sofa. Derek slowly draws his feet away to make room, and grimaces, pressing both hands tight to his stomach, but doesn't stop until his knees tent the blanket covering him.

"Pain?" asks Stiles's dad.

"It's not that bad," Derek replies.

"Because you heal." The words are slow, careful, and his dad's face is stuck somewhere between doubt and concern.

"I will. I am. The bandaging helped, and cleaning the wounds." Derek meets his eyes. "Thank you."

"Stiles did most of that. Very… adeptly." Stiles tries to hunker down and hide (it never worked when he was little but he kept trying). His dad huffs, a noisy sigh. "And Melissa McCall is coming over this afternoon to check on your wounds."

"What?" Stiles sits up straight, popping his spine, and looks at his dad then. "Since when?"

"Since I called her last night and asked her to. Since she, apparently, knows all about this stuff," he says, pointedly, and Stiles feels a little bit bad for Ms. McCall. He doesn't think his dad, like, yelled at her or anything, but Stiles has been on the receiving end of that disappointed voice and he's sure his dad was upset that she never told him. Not that Ms. McCall can't stand up for herself. If it ever came down to a verbal match between her and his dad, she could totally take him.

"I'll be fine, sir. It's really not necessary," says Derek, drawing their attention back. 

"For my peace of mind, it is." His tone of voice means that's final; Derek seems to get it. "Now, let's talk about this… werewolf… problem," he says, and fear flashes across Derek's eyes lightning quick, his shoulders tensing. Stiles's dad's face softens. "I don't mean you, son." He moves to place his hand somewhere in the vicinity of Derek's foot, but it just hangs there uncertainly. "I mean whatever did that to you," he finishes, gesturing toward Derek's injuries with the hand instead.

"It wasn't a werewolf."

"So Stiles tells me. Then what was it? And before either of you makes a noise about me staying out of it, this thing has killed two people and it is my job to keep this town safe. So, spill."

Derek looks over at Stiles, like he's checking for… Stiles doesn't know what. Help? Permission? Stiles just shrugs and nods.

"I don't know what it is, yet," Derek says eventually. "It was dark."

"Don't you have, like, superior night vision?" Stiles asks, but snaps his mouth shut when Derek glares at him.

"The _creature_ was dark," he clarifies. "Animal-like, but not quite… it wasn't like a full shift into an animal form. On the smaller side, too, but it was fast. And stronger than me," he admits grudgingly.

"Animal… creature." His dad is massaging tiny circles into his temples.

"Dad—"

His hands fly up, palms outward. "I'm fine. Just—okay. People can turn into animals. Fine. Do you turn into a wolf?" He directs sharp, curious eyes at Derek.

"I—" Derek actual-fax squirms in place. He keeps glancing at Stiles. "No. I could. Potentially. But I don't know how," he mumbles. He sounds ashamed and he refuses to meet anyone's eye, but it's not like Stiles didn't already know that. It was the reason the Alpha pack had nearly killed Derek.

"But you could," his dad says, looking much more determined all of a sudden. "And when you aren't a wolf, you'd still be you, which means when this thing isn't whatever thing it is, it's a person. Right?"

"That's—" Stiles's jaw hangs open for a second. "That was his working theory, actually," he says, hooking a thumb at Derek. "If we could find the person, we could… detain? Them? Or something. I think that was as far as we got."

"You have no leads?" his dad asks, frustrated. Stiles shoots a look at Derek as he opens his mouth.

"No," Stiles states firmly. "Nothing concrete." With his eyes, he dares Derek to contradict him. Derek blows a long breath out and looks back to the sheriff.

"This thing has been nearly impossible to track in its shifted form. Finding the human form…" Derek trails off.

"And there's always the possibility that this person doesn't even realize what he's doing or what he's turning into, like with the Kanima," Stiles explains.

"Kanima?"

Derek's shaking his head, and says to Stiles, "The Kanima was a tool of vengeance. An anomaly I doubt would happen again."

Stiles pauses, thinking. "Huh. That makes more sense now that I think about it." They both frown at him. He shrugs. "Well, Jackson was always kind of a tool." Derek gives him a disapproving look, but hey, Stiles never claimed to be nice.

"Jackson?" his dad asks, more forcefully this time, and ooh. Stiles had skipped that part last night.

"Jackson, yeah," he starts, chewing his lip. "See, before he was a full-on werewolf, he was sort of this lizard-man. Thing." He holds his breath, not looking directly at his dad to gauge his reaction.

His dad stares at him for a full minute. "We are going to have to have a much longer, more in depth discussion about this later," he says. Stiles starts to nod, but his dad continues, "I meant Derek and I, since I think I can trust him to tell me the whole truth this time."

 _Ouch._ Stiles doesn't flinch, but it's a close thing. He stares down at his hands, instead, and hears his dad stand up and walk the few steps across the room and through the door. Stiles knows he can't exactly argue with that, but it still hurts. The back of his throat feels like it's swelling up, making it difficult to breathe, and his eyes start to sting.

Then there's a big hand covering his. Stiles blinks. Derek's fingers trace his knuckles lightly, before drawing away.

"I have to go into the station now," his dad's voice cuts in, coming back into the room. Stiles blinks the wetness out of his eyes before looking up at him. "Not sure what I'm going to do when I get there. I've got people working on a case they can't possibly solve so..."

For a second, Derek looks like he wants to say something, but he tightens his lips into a thin line and looks down at his knees. He's starting to look a little pale and shivery again. Stiles wonders if werewolves can get infections or, like, septic shock. He's pretty sure that's a thing.

"Remember, Melissa will be here this afternoon so you both stay put. And you," he points at Stiles, "you are still a world of grounded. If I hear you've even stepped foot outside this house, I will—I'll put you in a cell myself, so help me." He fumbles for his keys by the door. "Now I've got to figure out how to find a paranormal were-thing," he's mumbling under his breath, "wonder if that veterinarian has a tranq gun."

"Dad!" Stiles bolts to his feet and takes two steps toward the door. "Don't... you won't go out and—and do anything, will you?"

"I have investigated a thing or two in my time, Stiles. I know how to go about it without endangering myself," he says, with one perfectly arched eyebrow. He reaches out and squeezes Stiles's shoulder. "I'll be checking in later, kid."

The door shuts loudly behind him after he leaves, plunging the house into a restless silence. Derek shifts over onto his side, still holding his stomach.

"Damn," he says, not quite a growl.

"What? What? Does it hurt?" Stiles dashes back over to the couch.

"Yes, but that's not—" Derek sighs. "I just realized I'm probably fired, since I never made it to work last night."

"Oh." Stiles sinks down onto the far cushion, where his father had been sitting, and lets all the tension drain away with one long, slow exhale. He absently pats Derek's ankle beneath the blanket. "That sucks, man."

 

* * *

 

When Ms. McCall stops by, she brings Scott with her — _thank god,_ because Stiles was going out of his mind with boredom. Derek slept most of the morning, and Stiles was tiptoeing around the house so he wouldn't disturb him. He figured the rest probably helps with the healing process, and who knows how noise affects a werewolf's sleep patterns. Does every little sound wake them up? That would be annoying to have to live with. Maybe he should ask Scott about this.

They go out to the backyard while Ms. McCall checks Derek's injuries. Stiles reckons they could use some doctor-patient privacy. Or nurse-patient. Whatever. He kind of just doesn't want to be in the room and have to answer any more questions. Also, his dad was probably joking about that whole locking-him-in-a-cell thing if he set foot outside the house. Anyway, the backyard is still totally part of the house.

"Was your dad…" Scott waves aimlessly as Stiles firmly shuts the back door. "I mean, how did he…?"

"I don't know. Okay, I think. Sort of calm?" Stiles picks up his lacrosse stick leaning against the side of the house, pops the ball out of the net, and catches it with the other hand. "He's called twice from his office and he sounded fine. He accepted it a lot more easily than I ever imagined. Of course, I always imagined more, you know, imminent _death_ when he found out, so..." Stiles shrugs and throws the ball to Scott.

They toss it back and forth for a while, Stiles with his stick and Scott with his hands, keeping up a steady rhythm.

"I was wondering if maybe he waited until he was out of the house to freak out," says Stiles after awhile. "You know, so I wouldn't see it? He's done that before. Tried to hide it from me."

"But you said he sounded okay on the phone," Scott replies, lobbing the ball up high so Stiles has to reach for it this time.

"Yeah." Stiles misses and has to go chasing after it. "Remember when making first line was the only thing we were worried about?"

"I think you still could next year if you keep practicing."

"Half the team is made up of werewolves," Stiles says, chucking the ball back to Scott and making _him_ leap for it.

"Not half. Like, not even a quarter." It's like he's not even trying when he snatches it out of the air. Stiles thinks that's his point made right there.

"Fine. Half the starters are werewolves, whatever. I think that ship has sailed, man." He's not that upset about it. He got to play in more games this past year, and that's really enough for him. He remembers when their moms signed them up for peewee soccer. Stiles is pretty sure it was his parents' solution to burning off all his energy in the summer. And yeah, he could've run up and down that field all day, but he really lacked the coordination for the footwork involved. Any time someone passed him the ball, he ended up flat on his face. Scott had had the coordination, but not the lung capacity, and soccer lasted less than a month for them.

While Stiles is more in control of his limbs these days, he's accepted that he's never going to have the natural (or supernatural) grace to compete with his teammates. It's cool; he can do other stuff that they can't.

"Well, my mom was really relieved when your dad called," Scott says, going back to the earlier topic. "I think he was mad that she didn't tell him, but I didn't hear the conversation. Mom gets really upset about eavesdropping."

"He understands that everyone had reasons for keeping it a secret," Stiles tells him. He hopes that's true. He flings the ball up high again, and watches as Scott elegantly executes a perfect somersault to nab it. Stiles growls. "Alright, showoff. Switch me."

Scott laughs as they trade, taking the crosse and jogging backward farther away. Stiles throws the ball long and Scott sets after it, soaring through the air all majestic and shit. Well, when Derek does that, it's majestic. When Scott does it, it's… it's still pretty impressive, just funnier.

"So, like, how long is Derek gonna be here?" Scott asks, sending the ball back in a fluid arc.

Stiles doesn't even attempt to catch it this time. "I don't know. My dad told both of us to stay put. I think he probably wants to talk more about the, you know, wolf crap. Or maybe he just wants to keep an eye on us."

"Yeah, Allison's dad is like that with us all the time."

Stiles bends to pick the ball up off the ground, and looks up at Scott. "What? Dude. _No_."

"Oh, 'cause your dad's just that cool with it?" Scott smirks, but it's spoiled by his laughter.

"No, I meant that he knows now. He knows _everything_. You know, like the part where me and Derek being a thing wasn't true and is not at all possible in this reality or any other?" Stiles juggles the ball between his hands. "And it's good. That it's all out there now. Everyone can move on, and Derek and I are friends, and I'm glad, because it's not like I liked the idea of people thinking we were together, it was so weird. I definitely wouldn't want people to think that unless it was true. Not that I would want it to be true."

He looks up and Scott is watching him. Or more accurately, Scott is staring at his chest.

"What?" Stiles places his hand over his heart, like he's about to say the pledge. "Was that a lie? I can't even tell anymore." 

Scott's face scrunches. "Um. It sounded kind of… lie-ish?" He takes a few steps closer, tapping the crosse lightly on the grass. "You know I wouldn't… you know, _care_. Right? I mean, he's never going to be my favorite person and, like, you could totally do better, but I'd be cool about it, if you… you know." He's standing with one foot crossed over the other, shifting his weight like he's nervous, with the pout and the eyes and _ugh_.

"Ugh," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "I know. You don't have to say that, man. Just shut up. And there's no me and Derek anything, so it's cool." Scott raises both eyebrows, glancing downward to his chest and up again. "Stop spying on my internal organs!"

A grin breaks across Scott's face. "Well, I don't want to spy on your _ex_ ternal organ."

Stiles whips the ball at his head, but he catches it easily even as he's laughing his ass off. Stupid wolf powers.

 

* * *

 

For a late lunch, or an early dinner, Stiles makes Derek soup, because that's what you do when someone is sick. He's not sure that's what you do when someone's guts have been nearly ripped out... because people can't eat soup if they don't have any guts. But Derek's guts are fine. Well, they're still present and accounted for, and he ate breakfast this morning like it was the first and last meal he'd ever seen, so... soup.

"Chicken and stars," Stiles says, carefully settling the 'sick-day tray' (as he's always called it) over Derek's lap on the couch. "My mom's specialty."

"Isn't this… just from a can?" Derek asks, carefully.

"Yep." Stiles grins at him. "My mom's specialty." He sits in the recliner usually reserved for his dad. He doesn't talk about his mom often because it still hurts, but this feels easy. "She never really had the patience for cooking, but she always made that for me when I was sick, so it became, like… I don't know, not like a craving, but like… It was the only thing that could make me feel better."

"Comfort food."

"Yeah, sorta." Stiles feels his lips pull into a half smile. "Is it working?" 

"I don't think it's healing me any faster," Derek says (and that was almost a _chuckle_!), "but it's good. Thanks."

He sips at another little spoonful. Stiles can't take his eyes off the delicate way Derek holds his spoon.

"Melissa called the garage and told them I had pneumonia," Derek says a minute later. "Nobody's called me out sick since… since my first full moon after I started middle school." He gets a faraway look on his face, and Stiles stops himself from saying anything even though he's burning with curiosity.

They watch _Tommy Boy_ on TBS. Derek literally clutches his sides because laughing hurts, but he doesn't ask to change the channel. Stiles doesn't blame him; who can resist Chris Farley? Derek falls asleep again after the movie ends. Stiles lays the blanket over him, and heads back up to his room.

He sits at his desk and attempts more research, but it's just going over everything they already have, no new epiphanies forthcoming. He screws around on the internet for a while until he's just randomly clicking through Wikipedia pages without absorbing any information. He's all jittery — a familiar impatience for _something_ to occur — spinning around in his desk chair. He stops abruptly, using his feet on the carpet as brakes, facing his bed.

It's just sitting there, all rumpled from this morning, and Stiles ponders taking a little time out to _relax with his thoughts_. It's as good a way as any to calm him down. Or kill some time. Or, well, pretty much he never needs an excuse.

But Derek is right downstairs and what if he _can_ hear it even in his sleep? What if it wakes him up? Not that Stiles is loud; he's mastered (heh) the art of being discreet. It's a necessity for any guy who doesn't live alone, and especially if said guy lives with his father. Derek, however, has super senses. What if he can not only hear, but smell, and-and-and _taste_ it?

And then he's thinking about Derek and his dick, together, in the same space, and his dick is not objecting to this at all. Stiles stares down at himself and silently tells his dick that this is not cool and it's a good thing werewolves can't read minds because Derek would be up here so fast, all huffing and puffing and—

That is not helping with the boner or the relaxation problem one bit.

Stiles decides to take a shower to cool down instead. Like so many things in his life, it doesn't go as planned.

He sets the water to lukewarm at first and steps under the spray, lathers up his hair more than necessary since he's gone back to buzzing his head, and tries to clear his mind of everything. That, obviously, never works. So he goes the opposite route, turns the water hotter, and directs his thoughts down other avenues — memorable porn, mostly. Sometimes it's easier to fantasize about people he doesn't know. He can make it quicker, _dirtier_ , because he'll never have to look those people in the eye.

Lydia Martin used to be his happy place, and not necessarily in a sexual way. He knows now that he didn't really _know_ Lydia; he knew superficial facts, things he could observe, but he didn't know her. Stiles can admit that he'd idealized her. And most of his fantasies of her were completely innocent. He'd dreamt of holding her hand as they walked down the hallway together, and driving her home from school, and getting a kiss on her doorstep, and taking her to a school dance (and hey, that one came true!).

The first time she'd snuck into one of his wet dreams, he was fourteen and the dream itself wasn't even indecent. She was sitting on his lap, but they were both fully clothed, and she was leaning into him, the soft silkiness of her hair caressing his cheek. He tucked it behind her ear, she beamed radiantly at him, the warmth of her body pressing into his, and he woke up with a mess on his stomach.

That was when his dream of marrying Lydia Martin became a goal, when he decided to learn everything about her and love her more than anything in the world.

So, as Stiles spills over his hand and onto the shower tiles, hoping that the sound of the water and smell of soap will cover it, the image that comes into his mind is Derek, looking straight at him, and smiling.

He stands, shaking under the water with one hand bracing him against the wall, and thinks, _Well, crap._ That's just what he needs now — another impossible crush.

 

* * *

 

Scott calls while Stiles is contemplating what to make for dinner. (He'd rather go for quick and easy, but he always makes a point of providing something more substantial for his dad.) He fumbles his phone out of his pocket and almost flings it across the kitchen in his haste to answer. He doesn't want to risk waking Derek _now_ , not when he's still buzzing with all this newly specific nervous energy.

"Dude." Stiles peeks into the living room to see that Derek hasn't moved.

"Hey, man. Why are you whispering?"

"I'm not," he whispers, retreating farther into the kitchen and slinking into a corner. "Just, what's up?"

"Oh, I thought I should let you know that your dad is here."

"He's what?" Stiles claps a hand over his mouth and hunches down again. "I mean, why?"

"He got here about an hour ago to see my mom, and they've been locked up in the den ever since. Mom said I'd be grounded forever if I listen in."

"Oh." _Guess Dad needed to have a freak out after all._ "So, like, how's the vibe? Does he seem angry? Has there been yelling?"

"No, no yelling," Scott says, and pauses for a long breath. "He, um, he looked at me weird, though." Scott sounds sad and too quiet. "I never really thought about how it might change him. Knowing, I mean."

"Scott, he knows you're still you," says Stiles, but his own breath stutters out of him. He hadn’t thought about that, either. Not with regard to Scott, anyway. Derek, yeah, his dad's opinion of him was already… and the others, maybe, too. But Scott is Scott.

"It wasn't like how my mom reacted at first. He didn't look or smell scared. Just, like, confused I guess," Scott says, sounding more himself. "Talking with my mom will probably help a lot."

"But you can't tell me what they're saying?"

"Not—"

Distantly, Stiles hears laughter erupt. "What? What was that?"

Scott hums. "They're talking about..." A great puff of air whistles into the phone, and Scott's yelling out, "That's not funny, Mom!"

"And I told you not to eavesdrop!" she calls back, sounding tiny and far away.

"I can't just turn my ears off," Scott grumbles. "I better go anyway," he says then to Stiles. "I'm supposed to meet Allison."

"Okay, sure, buddy. Thanks for calling me and—" Stiles chews his thumbnail. "Do you think he's going to be there much longer?"

"I don't…" Scott sniffs loudly. "Uh, they just opened the bottle my mom's been saving so… yeah. Yeah, he's probably going to be here for a while. Mom will take his keys and make him sleep in the guestroom. Are you, um, are you good there, on your own? Like, with Derek there?"

"Yeah, man. It's not like he can do anything; he can barely walk," Stiles says. Ms. McCall had helped him to the bathroom earlier, after she checked his wounds and changed his bandages. Stiles thinks they're all pretending that didn't happen, though. "Anyway, he's been sleeping most of the time."

"What about tomorrow?" Scott asks. "Are you still stuck there? Isaac was gonna come hang, play some RDR maybe. Probably stay over. Would be cool if you were here, too."

"Ah, yeah," Stiles stalls, scratching his fingers through his hair. "Can't. My dad was pretty strict about not leaving the house." Not that he's been following those orders to the letter up 'til now. And it's not that he doesn't want to hang with Scott and Isaac. It's just that he doesn't want to hang with Scott _and Isaac_. "Besides, I shouldn't leave Derek here alone; his guts are still healing. Who knows how long that will take? It took Isaac almost all day to heal that scratch on his arm."

Scott makes more disappointed noises before hanging up, and Stiles leans back against the kitchen counter with his phone in both hands, pressed under his chin. His dad not coming home tonight will put off the inevitable Q and A session, at least. Also, now he doesn't have to make a healthy dinner. Derek's still out, so he's only got himself to worry about tonight. Yeah, right.

He settles for Easy Mac and watching movies on his laptop in bed.

 

* * *

 

Derek's up and about by the time Stiles rolls out of bed at noon. He doesn't even remember falling asleep. After his morning piss, he gets dressed and heads downstairs to find Derek in the kitchen.

"Your dad called. He'll be home in a few hours," Derek says, leaning his hip against the counter. He's still shirtless and covered in bandages, but he's standing upright and not wincing as he moves. "And I'm starving."

Stiles snorts and moves into the kitchen. "I would've made dinner last night, but you were out cold, man. I figured it was better to just let you sleep."

"It was." Derek brings his hand up to rest against his bandaged stomach. Stiles can't help but watch the way his muscles flex from his shoulder all the way down his arm, grateful that his abs are covered up. Stiles had his hands on those abs just a day ago, but he doesn't actually remember what they feel like, it's all a frantic blur in his memory.

Derek's hair is all flattened down on his head and curling a tiny bit at the ends. It looks cute. Stiles bites the inside of his cheek; Derek probably feels all grubby. They'd cleaned him up while treating his wounds, but wiping off blood with a wet cloth is no substitute for a good, hot shower.

A bolt of heat shoots straight through Stiles, starting right in his center and flooding up to rise as a flush in his cheeks, remembering his time in the shower last night. Jesus, he really hopes Derek was deeply asleep yesterday and hadn't heard and/or smelled him. 

"I can be out of here as soon as you want," Derek says, watching him with furrowed brow. "The wounds should be gone by tomorrow at the latest."

"I'm not kicking you out," Stiles tells him, hoping that's confusion on Derek's face, not recognition. Having Derek here might be awkward, but Stiles doesn't want him to go. "Besides, I think my dad still wants to talk. About stuff."

"I know." Derek picks at his bandage, scratching the skin around it until it's red, looking like he wants to claw his way right into himself and disappear.

And that's some seriously disturbing imagery. Stiles doesn't understand his brain sometimes. He shakes his head. "I don't think it'll be that bad. He took last night to… I don't know, process or wallow or whatever. He'll come in here all business, I bet."

"That's not as reassuring as you think it is."

At that, Stiles smiles. "Are you scared of him? I mean, he's totally bad ass — all Stilinskis are, obviously — but he can be a reasonable man." He'd hoped Derek would pick up on his joking tone, lighten the mood, but Derek looks as stony and brooding as ever.

"He is the sheriff of the town that I would like to continue living in," Derek says evenly. "He's also your father."

Stiles's mouth opens, lips already forming the 'W' sound of a question, but he stops himself. He wants to ask why that, specifically, is relevant. To Derek. But he's not ready to hear the answer. Any answer. So, he opens the fridge instead.

"You said you're hungry? There might be some leftover Chinese in here," he says, with his head in the fridge so he doesn't have to look at Derek. "Or there's good ol' Easy Mac in the cupboard behind you."

He closes the fridge door, because his dad is always telling him not to stand there with the door open, and turns around to face Derek. "Or, um, SpaghettiOs? Actually, we probably don't have SpaghettiOs. When I was little I ate them every day for lunch for, like, a month. It was just the only thing I wanted to eat, you know? So my mom caved and let me. And then one day, I think we went to the beach or something for the afternoon, and I got sick on the car ride home. You can guess where this is going, right? Have you ever seen recycled SpaghettiOs? They just look the same as before you ate them."

Derek's just staring at him. Stiles clears his throat. "Anyway, I haven't been able to even look at them ever since, so no SpaghettiOs, but there might be some Top Ramen."

Finally, Derek moves. Stiles was seriously starting to wonder if he'd been hit with Kanima paralysis venom again. He nudges Stiles away from the refrigerator, saying, "How can you possibly monitor your dad's diet when you eat crap like that."

"Well, it's not like I make that stuff _for him_ ," Stiles says. "Besides, I just said — SpaghettiO-free for, like, ten years."

Derek merely grunts in response, opens the fridge, then the freezer, and starts pulling stuff out. Stiles stands on his toes, trying to see over his shoulder. He gets distracted watching the tattoo on Derek's back curve and ripple with each movement, wondering if the scar tissue is still there, raised lines on otherwise smooth skin, or if it healed and faded away completely leaving only the ink behind. He wants to touch it.

"What are you doing?" Stiles says to himself, backing away when he realizes his hand is already reaching out.

"I'm going to make something to eat," Derek answers him, laying items on the counter next to the sink. "If you help, it'll be done by the time your dad gets here."

Frozen for a moment, Stiles feels his heart trip over itself, and Derek gives him an odd look.

"What the hell are we gonna make with all of that?" he asks, surveying all the random things that came out of his fridge. He doesn't give Derek a chance to answer, but he agrees to help. First, though, he's going to go get Derek a damn shirt to put on.

 

* * *

 

"Dude, if you can cook why do most of your meals come from a box?" Stiles asks while grating cheese into a bowl. Derek looks up from chopping vegetables, eyebrows raised in question. Stiles shrugs. "What? Of course I looked through your cupboards while I was there."

Derek's shaking his head, but his lips curl up ever so slightly at the corners. "I _can_ cook; doesn't mean I particularly feel like it most of the time. Easy stuff, nothing fancy."

"This is your definition of easy?" Stiles waves his hand at their workspace. In his book, anything that has more than three ingredients is _not_ on the easy list.

"It's simple, just time-consuming. Most days, I don't really feel like putting the effort in," Derek says, and starts to crack eggs into a bowl. "There's no point preparing a whole meal for just one person."

And, yeah, that's definitely true. Stiles has spent his share of dinnertimes all by his lonesome. Hence the Easy Mac and Ramen. He wonders if Derek used to cook for his sister. Or if they had other friends where they lived. Other pack members, maybe. Derek never talks about his life before coming back to Beacon Hills, and probably nobody ever asks.

"Doesn't Isaac ever eat with you?" Stiles asks. "I mean, I know he goes over there more than the rest of us. He stays with you sometimes, right?" Isaac technically lives with his great aunt, but he seems to come and go as he pleases.

"Sure, sometimes. We don't really have… family dinners, though," Derek replies, only stumbling a little over the word 'family.'

"Maybe you should," Stiles suggests, focusing intently on his task and not looking at Derek. "Pick a day and make Isaac come over for, like, wolf pack dinnertime. I mean he could probably use the reminder. You know, that he's not alone." Stiles is trying his very best to sound offhand. He's pretty sure he's not fooling Derek, who remains quiet.

"He spends a lot of time at Scott's, too," Derek comments after awhile.

Stiles snorts and says, "Yeah, no kidding," before he can stop himself. He doesn't know if Derek or any of the others had picked up on his animosity towards Isaac (he's sure at least Boyd must have, but he isn't around as often, and Scott hasn't at all), but he'd been trying to keep it to himself. He doesn't _hate_ Isaac or anything. He just wishes the guy would stop having things in common with Scott.

"It's good for him. For both of them," Derek states, matter-of-factly. Stiles can feel the gaze on the side of his face, feel Derek watching him. "You and Scott, you've known each other a long time, right."

"Yeah." Stiles shrugs. "Like twelve years." Since the third week of kindergarten, to be precise.

"And you're close, closer than any two friends. More like brothers, you might say."

"Totally," Stiles agrees. He thinks they probably get along better than brothers, but neither of them have any firsthand knowledge to compare it with, being only children. (Although, Scott had once expressed, bitterly, the possibility that his dad could have more kids out there somewhere and Scott will just never know about them. That conversation devolved into _'What if you met your sister but you didn't know she was your sister and you guys kissed?!'_ rather quickly — they were thirteen.) They also have their down moments, they've fought plenty of times, but they always make up. Nobody could ever replace Scott. Stiles sometimes fears the reverse isn't also true.

"Well, Isaac doesn't have that with anyone," Derek says.

"What about you?"

"I'm his Alpha." Derek concentrates on mixing all their ingredients in a bowl; Stiles sort of lost track of what they were doing. He thinks that's all Derek's going to say, watches him lick his lips and breathe deeply until he finally speaks again. "I will always be here for Isaac, he's my responsibility, but it's not the same. And he doesn't have that kind of relationship with Boyd, not since that mess with the Alphas. And Erica left. Boyd doesn't—"

Derek stops abruptly, but Stiles gets it. Boyd's still part of the group, part of Derek's pack, and he's around when he's needed, but he's separated himself somewhat. Derek still relies on him, Stiles has seen that, so he hopes that Boyd will work out whatever he needs to work out and come back, all in. For Derek's sake as much as Boyd's.

"But Isaac looks up to Scott," Derek says, and Stiles hears the unspoken _'not me'_ even though he doesn't think that's true. "And Scott could use the experience for when he decides to make his own pack."

"But Scott can't, right? I mean he can't turn people — he doesn't have the power?"

"He will, one day." Derek says it so certainly, like it's inevitable. Stiles had never thought about that, about Scott being a full Alpha werewolf, complete with power boost and his very own backup dancers.

"I don't think Scott really wants a pack."

"He will. One day." And Derek turns to look him in the eye. "He doesn't need to turn anyone to have a pack. He could get married, have kids. It's not that different, really." Because pack is family. "And he's got you already," Derek throws out there. "His mother. You don't need to be werewolves to be part of his pack."

"But—" Stiles starts, because surely there's more to it than that. Scott can't just spontaneously become an Alpha, can he?

"He can obtain the Alpha status without the added power," Derek says, psychic all of a sudden. "It does happen. There are more ways to gain Alpha abilities than just—" Derek cuts out and Stiles reads 'killing them' all over his face. "Or inheriting it. He can take in betas, or omegas and make them betas, but they have to submit to him, recognize him as their Alpha."

He stops, hands motionless on the casserole dish he'd just filled. "They have to choose him," he says, quietly. "It's not automatic; a werewolf can choose his Alpha, choose to follow or not. They don't _have to_ stay if they don't want to."

 _Isaac and Boyd_ , Stiles thinks. That's what all this 'giving them space' has been about. Derek's letting them choose, giving them the opportunity to pick him or not. But what happens to Derek if they decide to leave? Stiles doesn't like the possibilities.

"But every werewolf wants a pack," Derek says. "It's not in our nature to be alone."

The front door opens then, and Stiles hears the jingle of his dad's keys and the heavy tread of his boots. "Hey, Dad," he calls out, waiting for his dad to find them in the kitchen. "Derek's cooking for us."

He appears in the doorway, uniform wrinkled and face drawn, but he nods and even manages a little smile in their direction. Derek's busy sliding the dish into the oven, and setting the timer.

"It'll take about forty-five minutes," he says, turning to face the sheriff.

"Good. That'll give us time to talk some more." He sets his keys and his service weapon, holster and all, down onto the table, then holds up a thick file folder. "Everything we've collected on this case, as well as a few older ones that just never quite sat right with me." He points to the chairs. "Sit."

By the time they've filled his dad in on everything (well, everything police-related; there are some things Stiles still doesn't see the need to discuss), the casserole dish is empty and Stiles is just finishing his third helping. _Damn,_ Derek can cook.

"That just leaves us with this new one," his dad says, spreading what little the police have gathered across the table. "If it can be _any_ body…"

"I smelled paint," Derek says without preamble, like the words have been sitting in his throat ready to burst out. Stiles's confusion must be showing. "When it attacked me," Derek elaborates, "I smelled paint. It was the only scent strong enough to pick up."

"Why is that significant?" his dad asks.

Stiles and Derek share a _look_. Derek's eyebrows get in on the action, and Stiles shakes his head because he knows what those eyebrows are saying and they are _wrong_.

"It's not," Stiles answers. "It doesn't mean anything."

"It's the only clue we've had so far," Derek says, but he's talking to the sheriff now. He explains his supposition, and how they ran into Molly at the hardware store covered in paint just a few hours before he was attacked.

"Molly Mcguinty?" his dad asks, but he looks speculative rather than incensed as he should.

"What? Dad, come on, you've known the Mcguintys forever. You're not really buying this crap, are you?"

"Son, I've had to absorb and reconcile a lot of new information the last couple of days. Why didn't you mention this yesterday?" he asks Derek.

"I didn't…" Derek glances at Stiles, locking eyes for the scantest second, before returning his focus to the sheriff. "I just remembered. But even if it isn't her—and I never said it absolutely was." He leans forward, trying to get Stiles to look at him, but Stiles refuses. Sure, he starts back-pedaling _now_. "If it isn't her, it could still be connected to her."

"She has been away for a few years," his dad muses. "Perhaps something followed her back here? However, both victims have only a marginal association with her."

"Exactly," says Stiles. "Besides, it's a small town; everybody knows everybody to some degree."

"We look at every angle, Stiles, you know that," says his dad, pushing away from the table and wobbling to his feet. "We're not going to get anywhere tonight, and I can look into the backgrounds more tomorrow from my office. Right now, I'm stuffed." He pats his stomach shamelessly. "And I need to go lie down. Stiles, you get cleanup duty."

"Wha—" Stiles splutters, but his dad's already retreated from the room and up the stairs.

"I can help," Derek offers, but Stiles gives him a cold look.

"No, I got it," he says, curtly, and clears the plates himself, stomps over to the sink and starts filling it with water, squirting dish soap liberally. He starts dropping dishes in, then places them more gently. He might be angry, but his dad'll have a fit if he breaks all their plates.

"Then I should probably go," Derek says behind him. "I'm healed enough."

"You don't—" Stiles shuts the tap, reaching for a towel to dry his soapy hands. Derek's no longer standing there. "Wait, I can drive you!" Stiles calls, but Derek's already gone. He barely even heard the door open and close.

Well. Damnit.

 

* * *

 

After his dad leaves for work the next day, Stiles decides he's going to go talk to Molly himself. He just knows Derek's going to pull something, revert back to his creepy stalker tendencies, but he can't if Stiles finds her first. Problem is he's got no wheels because his dad hasn't given back the keys to the Jeep yet and his bike is locked up in her trunk.

It's already mid-afternoon when Stiles is walking through town from the vet's after catching a ride with Scott. He's working out his game plan when he spots Molly sitting in the window of the coffee shop on Main Street.

With Derek.

It's one of those chains that tries to look cutesy and chockfull of small town charm, complete with jingly bell over the door to announce everyone's presence. Stiles hates it; not that he could sneak up on a werewolf anyway, but Derek looks right at him as he marches over to their table.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles says. Because Derek doesn't even drink coffee. "You don't even drink coffee." It's one habit that they share. Or a habit they both don't share. Or something. Neither of them drinks coffee, is what he's saying. (Derek once said the smell is too strong and it gives him a headache. Whereas Stiles has always liked the smell, but he's never acquired a taste for it. Besides, if he needs caffeine — which, seriously, he doesn't _need_ caffeine — he'd rather drink a Dr. Pepper.)

"I got tea," Derek says, raising his cup. "What are _you_ doing here? Aren't you still grounded?"

"Theoretically." Stiles waves that aside. "I went with Scott to the animal clinic. Deaton's back today, so they've got some, uh, you know, _stuff_ to go over." He raises his eyebrows meaningfully.

"About the mountain lion?" Molly asks, and whoa, Stiles had forgotten to even acknowledge her.

"The what now? Oh! Yes. The mountain lion, totally. Hi! How are you? Why are you here?" He swivels his eyes to glare at Derek.

"Relax, we just bumped into each other," she says, shoving Stiles's shoulder a little. "I was on my way to the party supplies place to see if they have any decorations that don't look too cheap, I stopped in to grab some coffee, and there was Derek. He even offered to pay. So don't worry, littlest Stilinski, he's a gentleman." She smiles softly at him and her eyes glitter and Stiles doesn't like where this is going.

"Why do you need cheap decorations?" he asks, quickly diverting the conversation. "I thought your mom had you making all sorts of, uh, fancy stuff?"

Molly's smile falls, as well as her shoulders. "Yeah. I did. I made _a lot_ of stuff, and it's all ruined." She takes a long drink of her coffee and sets it down on the table. "We were storing everything in the potting shed in Mom's backyard until we were ready to set up. It was all clean and organized." She tends to talk with her hands, gesticulating over the table. "And a couple days ago an animal got in there and just—" Her fingers curl, like they want to strangle or claw. "Destroyed. Everything. Ripped to shreds."

"An animal?" Stiles asks, and Derek perks up — so this is the first he's hearing of it, too.

"Yeah," she huffs. "And I swear I closed and locked the door, too. I don't remember this town being so full of wild animals. I mean, sure, we're surrounded by nature but…" She shakes her head. "But wow, right? I mean, it's like Beacon Hills is Jurassic Park and someone's deactivated the fences."

"So, but—" Stiles's brain stutters, sliding into a dinosaurs vs. werewolves battle royale because _awesome_. He shakes himself and tries to focus on the key points he just heard. "Like, _all_ of your decorations? Including the ones you had just painted?"

"Yep. Every last one. It was right after I saw you guys, actually. I _just_ finished those stupid hearts. The paint was still wet!"

Next to him, Derek shifts on his chair. It lets out a short, sharp screech as he moves to stand up.

"Mom was crying for, like, hours," Molly's still talking, "and Phil was super weird about it. Until now, he was all for this big, family wedding. He doesn't have any — family, I mean. But Mom wanted it, so he was on board. Then all of a sudden he's urging her to elope. Like, just leave town, forget all the people we've invited, forget all the work I've done." She throws her hands up and flops back in her chair.

"And you're sure you locked up the shed when you left it," Derek says, still half-seated, his tea forgotten on the table.

"I thought I did, but apparently not. I can't think of any other way an animal could get in," she answers. "Also, we found this goo all over the place. Sort of rubbery like a Halloween mask, but… fleshier." Her nose wrinkles in disgust.

"Kind of looked like peeled skin maybe?" asks Stiles.

"I guess? I don't know, it was super gross. Phil cleaned it up, 'cause no way I was gonna touch it."

Stiles makes eye contact with Derek and he's already rising out of his seat. Flashing a distracted grin at Molly, Stiles says, "We gotta, uh, there's a thing we have to—" Derek's hand curls around his arm and starts tugging him toward the door. "See you later!"

Molly waves, confused, as Stiles is dragged outside and onto the sidewalk heading for Derek's car. "You are so rude," Stiles says. "You could've at least said bye."

"We don't have time for pleasantries." Derek unlocks his car and pulls the passenger door open, indicating Stiles should get in quickly.

"When do you ever take time for pleasantries?" Stiles slides in and waits for Derek to walk around the front and climb in behind the wheel before looking at him triumphantly. "I told you it wasn't her."

"Okay."

"Can we just take a moment and admit that I was right?"

"I said okay." Derek starts the car, and immediately punches the radio volume down. "But I was right, too. It's connected to her. Why else would it break into her shed and destroy her stuff? What do you know about her mother's fiancé?" he asks all rapid-fire.

Stiles pauses while buckling his seatbelt. "Wait, you think it's Phil?"

"We should go tell the sheriff. He can look up this Phil guy."

"Man, the wedding is on Saturday." Stiles already RSVP'd.

"I know," Derek says, pulling out of his parking space and out into traffic. "I'm supposed to be there."

Wait. What?

"Wait, what?" No, no, no. A sinking pit opens in Stiles's stomach. That can't—he _can't_ be Molly's date, oh god no. But why else would he be going? But that's just not _fair_.

The roaring in his ears subsides and he realizes Derek is talking. "…could certainly use the money, so I said yes."

Stiles blinks, confused, because that can't be what it sounded like. "Money what now?"

Derek turns to look at him, the 'you're an idiot' eyebrows back on his face. "To tend bar at the reception? Since I lost my job at the grocery store?"

Oh. _Oh!_ A little bubble of relief rises up Stiles's chest and bursts out of his mouth as a little giggle. "That's great!" He grins widely, looking out the windshield. He rests back in his seat and finally clicks his belt buckle home. "Wait, you really did get fired?"

Derek gives him the 'idiot' eyebrows again. "Are you so used to being the only one talking that you're just incapable of hearing anyone else?" he says, but he's not looking for an answer. Stiles can tell, and for once he doesn't even feel the need to defend himself.

"Drew was the only one there who really liked me," Derek says, more quietly. "I was on my way to pick up my last paycheck when I saw Molly. I know you thought I deliberately went after her, but I didn't."

Stiles can't deny it, so he doesn't try. "You _were_ pretty hell bent on it being her," he says instead. "I just don't understand why?"

"It fit."

"Circumstantial! How many times do I have to say it?" Stiles shakes his head in mock disappointment. "You'll never make detective, Hale."

"Occam's razor."

"Dude, just because you _wanted_ it to be her, doesn't make it the simplest solution."

"I didn't want—" Derek's mouth goes tight, and he clenches his hands on the steering wheel. "She just felt… off. Okay? She was always popping up. Everywhere. With you." His fingers flex, fanning out and curling back in. "And she kept asking you about me."

Stiles opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Huh. He thinks the only time she asked him about Derek was in the video store, before all this happened. He knew Derek must have heard them talking.

And Derek never once called him out on that, either.

Moving right along, because Stiles is nothing if not a master of deflection and the art of ignoring things he doesn't want to deal with, he clears his throat and says, "Well, let's Sherlock this shit. Eliminate the impossible, and whatever's left, however improbable, is the right answer. Since we're on a clock here, cut out the middle bit and think of the most improbable."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how his method works." Derek stops at a light behind two other cars, and Stiles notices for the first time where they're headed.

"We're going to the station right now? You said you had to pick up your check — let's do that first."

"Why?"

"Because as soon as my dad sees me out of the house he's going to… ground me some more."

A small sound escapes Derek, almost like a laugh. "How many consecutive life sentences are you on now?"

"Um, three? I think three."

"Good luck with that," says Derek, sounding and looking more relaxed. "If I turn right we go to the station, left to the market."

"Left, definitely," Stiles decides, drumming his fingers on his thighs. He cranes his head to see around the SUV in front of them. The light is green, but nobody is moving. "What's the holdup?"

Derek rolls his window down to look out his side. "I can't… oh." He settles back in his seat, eyes downcast.

"What?" Stiles leans across the car to look, as well, and a long, black hearse passes them going the opposite direction, followed by a line of cars. The little white flags flapping on their windows declare them part of a funeral procession. "Oh."

They need to figure this thing out before anyone else dies.

"Go left. I'll call my dad right now."

 

* * *

 

His dad is not happy with him at all, and Stiles has orders to go directly to the Sheriff's station. They're already outside the market, and it'll only take a minute, so it doesn't feel like a lie when Stiles says he's on his way right now. He will be, Derek just has to run in and out. Stiles gets out of the car — because the leather seats are _hot_ in the sun — and leans against it to wait for Derek to come back.

He calls Scott, to fill him in and ask if Deaton's got any ideas, when he hears a blood-curdling scream and the slapping sounds of sandals on pavement. And, even though Stiles considers himself to be a pretty smart guy, his first reaction will always be to investigate. Curiosity wins out over common sense every time.

He runs toward the screams, barely registering Scott's voice, tinny and far away, through the phone: _"Stiles? What was that?"_

"That is not a mountain lion!" Molly yells as she barrels past him.

"Totally not a werewolf, either," he breathes, tripping over his feet trying to back up and turn to run at the same time. He starts to go down, sidewalk coming up to meet him, then strong hands catch his arms in a bruising grip and tug him up.

Derek's there, holding him up and pushing him away at once. His eyes are red and teeth elongated when he growls, "Run!"

Stiles fears he means to stay behind and there's no time to argue. He grabs Derek's hand and doesn't let go. Together they take off running.

They catch up to Molly, and Derek steers them all away from the street. The market is near the center of town, but the small parking lot behind it backs up to a strip of woods that runs along a winding stream and leads deeper into the wildlife preserve. Of course, that's where Derek takes them.

The creature follows.

It roars behind them, whipping through the trees, and it sounds more like a jungle cat than the wolfy growls Stiles is used to. He notices Scott's voice still yelling at him and brings his phone up to tell him they're in the woods past the market.

"We need some major backup, Scott! Hurry!" He doesn't end the call, figures it's probably best to keep the line open so Scott, or Deaton or anyone, can hear what's going on over at this end.

"Where are we going?" Molly says next to him, sounding as out of breath as Stiles feels.

They don’t slow down, veering around trees and dodging mangled roots. Stiles is just trying to keep up, and he realizes that Derek is still holding his hand. Derek could outrun them without even trying, but he's keeping them both slightly ahead of himself.

"I'll distract it," Derek says, starting to fall even farther behind. "Take her and get out of here."

"Are you crazy?" Stiles tightens his hold on Derek's hand, not minding the claws leaving pinprick indents in his skin. "That thing nearly disemboweled you last time!"

"What the hell _is_ that?!" Molly cries, trying to look back over her shoulder. She trips and tumbles to the ground. Stiles tries to reach down and haul her back up, but he's just not that agile or strong. He falls and Derek's hand wrenches out of his grasp.

Derek crouches in front of them, claws fully extended, with his game face on. The creature, sleek and black and graceful now that Stiles can really see it, is charging full speed ahead.

And then Isaac breaks through the trees from their left, leaping out and straight into the shifter, knocking it off its trajectory. They roll across the forest floor, kicking up leaves and dirt. Derek launches himself into the fray and tries to separate the thing from Isaac. Or separate the thing's head from its shoulders — it's hard to tell from Stiles's angle.

He scrabbles backward, pulling Molly with him, through leaves and twigs until he hits the trunk of a tree. She makes a tiny squeak and Stiles takes in her wide-eyed gaze locked on the fight unfolding less than twenty feet away and rolling closer, a snarling mass. Somehow Derek gets hold of the creature, rips it away from Isaac, and hurls it right into the tree above Stiles and Molly. It ricochets and lands neatly on its feet, like a cat.

Its eyes glow green, shining in the sunlight filtering through the branches. Stiles knows, because it's looking right at him, gaping maw full of jagged, snapping teeth. It rears back on its haunches, black fur puffing up, but it actually doesn't look anything like a cat. Beside him, he hears Molly breathe out something that could be _'oh my god'_ if it's even words, but Stiles is too petrified to move because that thing is ready to lunge at them and they are going to _die_.

In a flurry of blurred color — gray and green and black and even darker black — the creature leaps but it's Isaac stooped over them, between them and it. Isaac's mouth is in a tight line, his eyes scrunched up and forehead deeply creased, but he holds strong barely an inch from Stiles's face.

Behind him, there's a scuffle and a roar, and Stiles sees Derek with his claws out and poised to strike, when a new yowl pierces the air. It almost sounds like someone yelling, "Noooooo!"

A brown blur collides with Derek, knocking him away, and pins the not-quite-a-panther to the ground. This new shifter looks different from the other, more human than animal, but it's still not a werewolf. It turns its head and slowly its facial features resolve themselves into those of a semi-balding, middle-aged man.

"Phil?" Molly's voice, small and quiet as it is, breaks Stiles's terror-induced paralysis. He starts to move away when it sinks in.

_Whoa._

Derek rises to his feet just as Isaac collapses over Stiles's legs — his back is all torn up.

The man, he's completely a man now, is wearing a tweed jacket, brown corduroys, and looks like he's about to cry. The creature below him twitches, fur rippling, as it begins to shift. An outer layer of fur or skin or whatever dissolves and melts into the grass, leaving slick trails smeared over the pale skin of a very naked woman. She has long, dark hair and wide, brown eyes. And she looks miserable.

"Don't kill her," the man — _Phil_ — says, turning his pleading eyes up to Derek.

Derek bends down to check on Isaac. He reaches under his arms to help him roll over and sit up.

"I'm alright," Isaac tries to assure them, but it comes out more of a whimper and there's blood seeping through the ribbons of his slashed gray t-shirt. Derek keeps one hand on the back of Isaac's neck.

"She killed two humans," Derek tells Phil.

"That's my fault. She's only here because of me," Phil says, removing his jacket and draping it over the woman to cover her. "But, please, members of her sawt are coming for her. Allow them to deal with this."

"There are hunters in this town." Derek's voice is harsh, warning. "I can't protect her from them. Or you. And I won't try."

"I know there are. I know they've been looking," Phil says, trembling. "It's why I tried to clean up after her."

"Who is she?" asks Molly. "What—what are..." Her eyes flit over Phil and the woman, both human-looking now, then Derek, and she must have seen his eyes and teeth and claws, and land on Isaac, the only one who hasn't changed back completely. His fangs are still out, hair grown coarse and long down his face, and his eyes glow gold. "Stiles?" she says, turning glistening eyes to him.

"Yeah... so, um, werewolves?" Stiles gestures up to Derek and down at Isaac. "But they're cool, I swear."

"He's hurt," she says, leaning forward to look at Isaac's bloodied back.

"So are you," Stiles says, noticing Molly's ripped shirt and the red stains on otherwise white cotton. She contorts herself to look down at her right side. "Did you get scratched? There's venom! We don't know what it does to people—"

"It's fine," she says, lifting the material away to check the skin beneath. "I think I just got scraped by those tree roots."

"Oh." Stiles breathes. "That was my bad, I think. Sorry."

"No, don't be. Thanks for the, you know, save," she says, a little shaky. Her gaze lands on Phil and the mystery woman, who hasn't moved or spoken at all. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Lillian," Phil says. "She was my wife."

Stiles sucks in a breath. He hadn't seen that coming.

"But my mom is supposed to marry you in three days," and Molly's voice definitely wobbles this time, and Phil's eyes are brimming with tears, and mystery lady who was his wife finally makes a sound that's more like a wail.

"Stiles," Derek says, looming next to him, warm and large with one hand on Stiles's shoulder and the other steadying Isaac. "He needs help. I need you to take him."

"Wha—"

"I have to stay, as Alpha. If there are others coming, I have to meet them."

"Where should I…" Stiles gestures helplessly.

"Get him to Deaton," Derek tells him, helping Isaac to his feet and then hauling Stiles up by the hand. Stiles gets his shoulder under Isaac to take some of his weight.

"But what about—I mean, I can't just—" Stiles doesn't feel right leaving Molly to all of this on her own, but when he looks to her again she's wrapped up in her… possibly-step-father-to-be's arms and crying onto his shoulder. Mystery lady is huddled into herself and crying, too. There's a whole lot of crying going on. Maybe he should be worrying about leaving this to Derek on his own.

"Stiles, we'll be okay. Go on," Derek says, as if reading his mind (again, seriously, that better not be a new thing).

Hobbling away together, Isaac directs him through a shortcut to the animal clinic. "Scott and I have spent time running, trying to find the quickest routes around town," he explains, and of course they have. Later, Stiles will tell them that that was a good idea and he'll make maps of each route with their times, but right now it's just another thing that Scott does without him.

"Can I just say," he says, gasping for breath and really trying not to jostle Isaac and tear his wounds open any further. "Can I just say how much I _love_ that we take werewolves to the vet? Because I don't think I've ever properly expressed the hilarity of this before."

 

* * *

 

Deaton knows what's up, because of course he does, and people that can morph into animals are called Therianthropes. (Which Stiles _knew_ already… Or, he came across the term in his research but it was so general and vague he kept looking for more options, okay?) Deaton speaks calmly and methodically while he cleans Isaac's wounds, with Scott assisting like he actually knows what he's doing. Stiles is impressed by how professional Scott is — he shouldn't be, this caretaker gig totally runs in Scott's blood.

Normally, Stiles would be paying closer attention to what Deaton has to say because this shit is _interesting_ , but right now he can't stop worrying about leaving Derek… and the others, out there alone. Phil said more of her people were coming — what if they try to take Derek out?

Stiles would go back, he wants to, but he's really sore. It's a good thing Scott met them halfway and helped carry Isaac back here, otherwise Stiles might not have made it. Werewolves are heavy. Adrenaline alone is just not enough to shoulder that burden, and whatever rush he might've been experiencing earlier is definitely wearing off now.

Beyond all reason, Stiles falls asleep in the hard, plastic chair in the corner of Deaton's exam room.

 

* * *

 

"Are you sure he's okay?"

"Yeah, man, we checked him over. And you can hear his heartbeat from here, steady and strong."

"He looks uncomfortable."

There's a soft snort — _Scott_. "Stiles can fall asleep anywhere."

"It's true," says a softer, feminine voice. "He once fell asleep in a tree. Not a tree _house_ , just sitting in a tree. We were playing hide-and-seek and I couldn't find him for three hours. I thought his dad was gonna kill me."

"I know the feeling," mutters a low voice, the first one again, above Stiles's head. His muzzy brain registers it as Derek's.

Opening his eyes slowly, Stiles blinks against the light. He starts to sit up and a sharp pain shoots through his neck and up the side of his head. "Aghh!" he gurgles and brings a hand up to rub his sore muscles. He looks around at the others in the room — it's just Derek, Scott, Molly and himself now. "What'd I miss?"

"You haven't been out that long," Scott says, by way of an answer.

"Oh, good." Digging his elbows into the chair arms, Stiles pushes himself upright and rubs his hands over his face. Remembering everything that just happened this afternoon, he looks over at Molly. She looks fine. She seems calm, leaning against the wall with one foot crossed over the other. Her hair is in total disarray, but that's how it usually looks. Her shorts are dirty and there's a big bruise on her knee, but she seems otherwise unharmed. No blood or—wait, he recognizes that gray Henley. "Is that Derek's shirt?"

"Hm?" She blinks at him, then down at herself. "Oh. Yeah. Mine had a gaping, bloody hole in it."

"I keep spares in the car," Derek says, eyeing him closely.

Stiles nods dimly. "Good thinking?"

It is. Derek goes through more shirts than… someone who needs a lot of new shirts. It was nice of him to offer, really. Very considerate. And if it hangs loosely around her, slipping down off one shoulder, well it's not like she's going to wear it forever. Derek will probably need it back, what with the losing all his shirts all the time, and then he'll have a shirt that Molly wore, and Stiles could've given her a shirt, he offered Derek a shirt once and Derek never even returned it. Did he keep it? No, he probably lost it like all his other shirts. Stiles has definitely never seen him wear it because he wouldn't because that would be weird.

"Stiles?" Scott asks, bringing his face close. "Calm down, your heart is racing."

"I'm fine. When did you guys get here? Are you alright? What happened to the others? Where's Isaac?"

"Isaac's resting on the cot in the back," Scott says, bending down at Stiles's side and resting a hand on his shoulder. "He's good, he's healing. It won't even take as long as Derek because the wounds weren't that deep. And the other stuff…" Scott looks up to Derek for a second. "Deaton's helping with that. Uh, sort of mediating?"

Derek shifts his weight toward the door, but his eyes keep flitting over Stiles. "I should—I have to—because I'm—"

"What? Oh, yeah, go." Stiles waves a hand at him. "I'm fine. I just crashed."

"You're alright." Derek nods once, then turns and leaves. "Scott!" he barks before the door shuts.

Scott rolls his eyes, but shuffles after Derek. "I guess I'm, like, representing the pack or whatever," he tells Stiles. Then he's out the door, too.

Molly pushes away from the wall and walks a slow circle around the room, trailing her eyes along the walls and surfaces until they finally land on Stiles. "Remember when you were ten and you were convinced old Mrs. Carmichael was a vampire?" she asks, and he just blinks up at her. "She's not, right?"

The unexpectedness and absurdity surprises a laugh out of him. "Not that I'm aware of, but she did move a couple years ago, so." He shrugs, lips tugging up at one corner, conciliatory. "You're very… calm."

"Oh no," she says, widening her eyes, "I'm freaked. I just." She points at him. "You seem comfortable with all of this."

Stiles feels his eyebrows rise as he thinks about that. "You get used to it?" he tries. She tilts her head down at him and he gets 'disappointed babysitter' vibes. "No, I mean—" He stands up and moves closer to her. "It was crazy at first… Still is, to be honest, but, you know, it was Scott." He cringes. "Shit, I didn't just out Scott to you, did I?"

She shakes her head, huffing a tiny laugh. "No. He did that himself while you were sleeping." She turns to him, nose crinkled and a little wrinkle between her eyebrows. "Is it weird that it totally suits him?"

Stiles barks out a laugh. "It does, right?"

"And Derek Hale? That makes _so much_ sense." Her smile slowly fades. "It's pretty dangerous then. Being what they are?" She crosses her arms over herself, shoulders drooping. "Phil was supposed to be safe. He has a boring office job. He doesn't even like spicy food." Her lip quivers, and her voice sounds all watery when she says, "He makes her laugh. Do you know how rare that is?"

Laboring past the lump forming in the back of his throat, Stiles gently puts a hand on her shoulder and says, "Yeah."

"You know, Mom didn't—she didn't date for years after my dad died. She didn't even go out with friends for a long time. She was just so..." Molly runs her fingers through her tangled hair. "And now she's happy. The happiest I've seen her since I was twelve. And he's been so good to her. And to me. What do I even—" Her hands drop to her sides.

"It's—" Stiles licks his lips. "Okay. So. I don't know him? I mean, obviously I just met Phil today, but it doesn't—so, yeah, he's been keeping this kinda huge secret and I don't know how unforgivable that is, or whatever, but it was always there even when you didn't know about it. He's still the same guy, right?" He squeezes her shoulder lightly. "And, really, if it hasn't come up before now, if you or your mom have never had any reason to question who he is or what he does, then it can't be that big of a problem. Trust me, if he was living a dangerous double-life, there'd be signs."

She sniffs, watching him for a moment. "I guess you'd know about that, huh?"

He starts to nod, but then he stops and thinks about it. "Maybe not so much anymore."

Molly grabs a tissue out of the box on the countertop near her and wipes her eyes. She straightens her shoulders and looks to the door then up at Stiles. "Should we—?"

"Yes. I'm dying to know what's happening."

He skids to a halt in the lobby of the animal clinic when he almost runs right over his dad. Near the door stands Deaton, Derek, Phil, his ex-wife, and two new people flanking her with their arms around her shoulders. She's wearing a long robe and her head is down, dark hair hanging lank over her face.

Stiles faces his dad head-on, and he looks pissed.

"Yeah, I know," Stiles says, inwardly cowering. "Grounded forever."

His dad's mouth forms a tight line and, before Stiles can even think, one big hand is wrapped around the back of Stiles's neck, pulling him into a crushing hug. He tucks his face into his dad's shoulder and brings both arms up around his back. He's not crying, nope, there are zero tears leaking out of his eyes.

"I don't know what to do with you, kid."

"I know," Stiles answers, muffled in his dad's uniform. "I'm sorry, Dad."

His dad squeezes him tighter, and they sway there together for a minute. By the time his dad lets him go, the new therianthropic trio are trundling out the door.

"What, they're just leaving?" says Stiles as Derek follows them out — to make sure they get gone, probably.

"Looks like," his dad says unhappily, and Deaton meets his eyes. "I've been assured they're more equipped to handle situations such as… these. I don't like it, but it is what it is." He reaches a hand out and touches Molly's elbow lightly. "How you doing with all this?"

"Okay, Sheriff." She gives him a little smile, but her eyes stray over to Phil. "I think I have some family stuff to take care of."

"Do you need a ride?" Stiles asks. He doesn't remember anyone telling him _how_ they all got here, but his dad's cruiser is likely parked outside.

"We'll walk. We'll need the time," she says.

Molly makes her way across the room to where Phil is standing. Stiles would never have guessed that _that_ guy could metamorphose into any kind of animal by looking at him now, all dejected and forlorn. He hesitantly holds his hand out for Molly and she just as tentatively takes it, and they walk out together.

"I'm going to have a word with our neighborhood _veterinarian_ ," says Stiles's dad. "You stay right here."

Stiles makes an affronted noise, but his dad barely lifts an eyebrow as he walks away. He and Deaton disappear into the inner office, and Scott appears next to Stiles just as Derek comes back inside.

"Isaac's still sleeping," Scott says first thing. So that's where he was. Stiles can't fault him for checking on the guy; those wounds had looked painful.

Derek nods. "I'm staying here with him."

"Is everything, uh, good now?" Stiles asks. "Like, what exactly was this all about?"

"I think that Phil dude's ex-wife was, like, _really_ upset about him getting remarried," says Scott. "At least, that's what I got."

"That's not... inaccurate." Derek stuffs his hands into his pockets, working his jaw like he's figuring out what to say. "Supernatural marriages — or bonds or whatever you want to call them — don't really allow for divorce. According to human law, yeah, they're no longer married, but in their... culture, or traditions, you can't just break an oath like that without consequences."

"Like murder-spree type consequences?" Stiles rocks back on his heels. "That seems a little extreme even for w—uh." He stops himself from saying were-creatures because sometimes he _can_ be mindful of his surroundings. "For whatever crazy rules they have." 

"I guess she didn't want to let him go," says Derek, ignoring Stiles's almost slip — there's no way he didn't catch it. "He's basically been shunned by his entire… people. An outcast. An out _law_ in some of their eyes. He can never go back, never have contact again. Not just with them, but any of their kind. And he's losing his ability to shift. Soon he might not be able to at all."

"Whoa," Stiles says, because yeah, that's definitely huge.

"He'll become human?" Scott asks, and Derek might not hear it but Stiles doesn't miss the glimmer of hope in Scott's voice.

"No. He'll always be what he is; you never lose that." Derek hunches his shoulders, glaring at the floor tiles. "But he's already unable to shift all the way. His strength and speed will diminish, other senses will dull over time. He's not alone, though, so he should be alright."

 _If_ he's not alone, thinks Stiles. What will happen to Phil if Molly and her mom can't get past this? Is it the same for werewolves? Without a pack, do they lose their power? Or do they all just go feral like that omega Scott told him about? Does solitude drive them insane? It would certainly send Stiles off the deep end; he'd be talking to himself after five minutes on his own. Is that what Derek was afraid of? Without a pack, he'd lose himself?

"So," Stiles says, shaking those thoughts away, "pack-dynamics, how do they work? Like, Allison's not gonna have to fight you for Scott's hand in marriage, is she?" He grins over at Derek, who just rolls his eyes.

Scott scoffs and punches Stiles lightly on the arm. "Allison would totally win."

Not lightly enough. Stiles rubs at his arm and Scott looks apologetic. That gives Stiles the perfect opportunity to throw his arm around Scott's neck and get him in a headlock. They scuffle until they're both on the floor. He knows Scott's going easy on him — he could get out of this effortlessly and pin Stiles to the floor.

"You're both idiots," Derek says, stepping out of reach of flailing limbs. "I'd give Scott away in a heartbeat."

"Hear that, Scotty? Derek's gonna walk you down the aisle."

Scott weaves out of his hold, grabs Stiles by the ankles and flips him around so he lands on his back flat on the floor.

"Oof!" Air rushes out of Stiles, but it didn't hurt. Not the way it could have if Scott had used all his strength. Scott stands over him with his arms raised in victory. "Yeah, yeah, help me up," Stiles says, reaching out a hand, but it's Derek who takes it and pulls him to his feet.

Derek's hand is warm, the skin soft and smooth. Stiles takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying to calm his racing heart, but all he gets is a lungful of Derek's scent — woodsy and the clean smell of whatever aftershave he uses.

"What about me," Stiles says, looking into Derek's eyes. "Would you give me away?"

"I'm—" Scott hops from foot to foot, side-stepping around them. "I'm gonna go check on Isaac." He scampers away, and Stiles realizes he's still holding Derek's hand. They both look down at the same time, watching their joined hands.

Derek stiffens and steps away from him, hand sliding out of his grasp, half a second before the door to Deaton's office opens and Stiles's dad walks out. Stiles whirls to face him and clasps his hands behind his back because… he doesn't know why, it just seemed like the thing to do.

His dad looks at him, shrewdly, one eyebrow cocked high on his forehead. But it's to Derek that he speaks. "So, that's all taken care of, then?" He waves his hand toward the door, and oh yeah, he's talking about the shapeshifter problem. Stiles deflates with relief.

"Yes, sir," Derek says. "They'll handle it within their pack. Or whatever they call it. She won't go unpunished for the things she did. It's for the best."

His dad hums his assent. Though the look on his face gives away how uncomfortable he is covering this up for the 'official' story, it also says he knows this is the best possible outcome.

"C'mon, kid, I'm taking you home." He claps a hand onto the back of Stiles's neck and starts to lead him away. "And I'll cuff you to the kitchen table if that's what it takes to make you stay there." 

"Um, see you later," Stiles says as they pass Derek. His dad clears his throat, hand gripping him a little tighter. "Or not. Probably not. Chained up in the kitchen is where I'll be. Like Cinderella. Tell Scott I said goodbye forever!" he calls as the door to the animal clinic closes behind him.

He shields his eyes in the parking lot as they head over to the sheriff's cruiser. The sun hasn't even set, yet. It's been one hell of a day.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is lying on his bed staring up at the ceiling when he hears the rustle of someone opening his window from the outside. "Hey, buddy," he says without even looking over as Scott gracefully leaps through the window and rolls onto his feet. When Stiles tries that he always ends up landing on his ass. Or his head.

Scott hops up onto the end of his bed. "You in big trouble?"

"Eh," Stiles shrugs as much as he can while lying down. "About as much as I was in before. Probably won't get the keys to the Jeep back for a while. Not sure how long house arrest is going to last." He pushes himself up into a sitting position and folds his legs underneath him. "I wasn't expecting you to come over. I mean, I figured you'd stick with Isaac. Make sure he was alright."

"I did. The stuff Deaton had helped him heal more quickly. Plus having Derek there, as his alpha. And us, I guess. Boyd came by, too; it helps if we're all together. He's not a hundred percent, yet, but he's good. He went home with Derek and Boyd."

"Good. That's good."

"Yeah." Scott settles more resolutely on the bed, mirroring Stiles. "So," he says, pushing the toe of his sneaker into Stiles's knee. "Derek."

Stiles lets his whole body go limp, flopping sideways onto the bed with his legs dangling off the edge. He exhales loudly through his nose. "I guess so, yeah."

Scott flops next to him, snickering. Stiles kicks at his legs.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything!" Scott kicks back at him, laughing harder.

"Ugh, just shut up!" Stiles laughs now, too, trying to trap Scott's feet with his own.

His bedroom door bursts open, and they both freeze. His dad's standing there, one hand on the doorknob, the other on his hip.

"Oh," he says. "It's just Scott." And _what?_ Who else would it be? "Does your mother know you're here," he asks Scott.

"Yes, sir. I just wanted to make sure Stiles was okay." Scott sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed.

"All right. Well, he's grounded, but I'll give you fifteen minutes. Then it's time to go."

"Thanks, Dad," Stiles says, with a grateful smile. His dad nods and starts to back out, closing the door.

"Sheriff?" Scott slides off the bed, on shaky legs. "Are—are _you_ okay?"

His dad looks surprised by the question, and he stares at Scott for a long time. Stiles can't see Scott's face from his angle, but he can see Scott's fingers winding together and plucking at the material of his shorts.

"Yeah, Scott," his dad says, softly. "Everything's okay."

 

* * *

 

The two deaths are officially written up as animal attacks and the cases handed off to the state wildlife services to… do whatever it is they'll do with the information. Stiles hopes the mountain lions of California don't get pissed off for catching all the blame and rise up in karmic retaliation. There's a joke about crying wolf in there somewhere, but Stiles is trying not to push their luck too far.

In other official news, he is most definitely grounded forever or until his dad feels he's suffered enough. Actually, it's more like until his dad can be reassured of his one and only son's safety, but it's hard to be mad about the situation when Stiles lets logic override his angsty teenage emotions. He's kidding. He doesn't have those. And he totally gets where his dad's coming from.

Still, being stuck in the house sucks, and he's absolutely not permitted to leave under any circumstances. With one exception.

 

* * *

 

The ceremony is small, and probably seems shorter than it actually was because he and his dad get there late. It's held outside in the pavilion at the park, with the food and tables and entertainment for the reception set up all around it. They squeeze into a back row next to Scott and Ms. McCall, who are technically their dates, just as the happy couple kiss.

Everyone cheers; Ms. McCall dabs at her eyes; Scott leans over and whispers to Stiles, "Wow. I can't believe they actually went through with it."

Neither can Stiles. He was pretty surprised when his dad told him yesterday that they had a wedding to go to. He watches the new Mr. and Mrs… uh, Phil. Wow, he never even asked the guy's last name — he'll have to rectify that. He watches the newlyweds make their way down the aisle, laughing, smiling, accepting congratulations from all their guests. Molly follows, and flashes a bright smile at Stiles when she spots him.

"They look happy, though," Scott says, and Stiles can only agree.

At the reception, Stiles loads plates high with a little bit of everything and carries them over to a table where Scott is waiting. He starts to sit, but pauses midway. "I forgot to get something to drink," he says, and Scott snorts.

" _Sure_ you did."

"What?" Stiles asks, confused. Scott just looks at him, smirking, and then tips his head exaggeratedly toward the food and drink line where—

Oh.

He forgot that Derek was supposed to be here, too. He's behind the little bar they've set up on the side of the pavilion and dear god he's in formal wear. It's just a black vest and a bowtie over a crisp white shirt, but it's _fitted_.

Stiles licks his lips when he realizes his mouth is hanging open. He slaps Scott on the back of the head to stop his sniggering, and saunters casually over to the bar.

"I'm not serving you alcohol, so don't even try it," Derek says before Stiles is even three feet away.

Stiles stops short, and pouts. "What's the point of having an older, bartender friend if he won't hook you up?"

"Your dad is standing twenty feet away." Derek glances up at him under his eyebrows. "I don't know if he brought his gun to a wedding, and we're not going to find out."

Stiles stuffs his hands in his pockets and ambles the rest of the way over so he's standing right in front of Derek. "I told you," he says, with a sly grin, "he won't shoot you."

"Oh yeah?" Derek smirks back. He fills a cup and hands it over. Stiles can feel his eyes light up; he eagerly takes a big gulp and—

"Sprite. Funny." He raises the cup to Derek. "Cheers."

"Hey there," a voice says beside him and Stiles nearly spills his drink down his front. Molly covers a laugh with her hand, but Derek doesn't even bother to hide it. Stiles scowls at him.

"You guys have got to stop doing that to me." He sets his cup down and wipes his hands on a napkin. To Molly, he says, "You look nice."

"It is a wedding." She smiles broadly, her curly hair is pinned up on her head in a way that defies gravity, and her shimmery green dress accentuates her eyes. Yeah, that old crush is still there, but the feeling isn't quite as acute as it used to be.

"And the decorations are great," he says, taking in the expanse of the outdoors.

"We went with the minimalist approach."

"Tasteful, elegant." Stiles nods. "But, everything's cool? I mean, your mom—he told her?"

"Mm-hm. All of it. Well, not the part about you guys; he figured that wasn't his secret to tell." She gestures to him and Derek, and Stiles figures she means about their general werewolf shenanigans. "But everything else, yep. They had a looooong talk."

"And she still married him," Stiles marvels.

"I guess that's love." She bumps Stiles with her shoulder. "And you were right. He's the same guy, and that guy is pretty great."

Someone calls her name from the other side of the pavilion, and Molly starts to move away. "Oh, anyway, I came over here to tell Derek that they're going to start the dancing soon, so…" She glances back and forth between him and Derek, lips pursed and spreading into a grin. "So, you can take your break now if you want. Stiles, I'll save you a dance," she says as she backs away into the crowd.

"Wouldn’t miss it," he calls after her. He turns back to Derek to find he's watching Molly walk away, too, and a dull pang hits him in the middle of his stomach.

Derek looks sharply over at him, brow furrowed. He puts up a little 'on a break' sign, and walks around the bar past Stiles, snagging his sleeve on the way. "Come on," Derek says, not giving him a chance to say no.

"Where are we going?" Stiles stumbles after him, still caught in Derek's grip. Of course, Derek doesn't respond, just leads him away from all the people to a more secluded part of the park surrounded by trees.

"She's cool," Derek says. "I can see why you like her."

"What?" Stiles blinks, off balance — by the sudden stop or the unexpected topic, he's not sure. "Uh, yeah, I told you she's awesome," he says, cagily. 

Derek's staring directly into his eyes and it's starting to freak him out a little. Derek heaves a big sigh, shoulders bunching and falling in his dress shirt. He looks like someone is torturing him when he says, "I thought you liked her."

"I—do?" Stiles squints at him.

"I never know what to expect with you. You're always feeling thirteen different things at once; it's confusing, and I can never predict what you're going to do next," Derek says, all in an aggravated rush, and Stiles is very confused now because he thought this was about Molly.

"Look, if you're asking me if she'd go out with you—"

Derek growls, and Stiles totters back a step, but then Derek's hands are gripping the front of Stiles's shirt and tugging him forward and Derek's mouth is on his. It's hard and soft at once. Demanding and pliable. Derek's lips are dry until he opens them and Stiles feels his tongue just delicately trace his own mouth.

Then Derek slowly leans away, but not without nuzzling his nose against Stiles's cheek first, and letting out a shuddery breath. "There. Now will you stop thinking stupid things?"

His mouth is hanging open again, he knows it, but he can still feel the firm press of Derek's lips, can taste the hints of mint and lime on his breath. "Since when do you want to kiss me?" is what he ends up asking.

He feels the heat of Derek's breath on his neck, inside the collar of his shirt. Derek's fingers unclench in the fabric and smooth down his sides.

"I don't know," he says. "Last year, when you let your hair grow out."

Stiles rubs a hand over his buzzed head, the look he went back to after that all-nighter trapped out in the forest. _Bugs in your hair, man, worst thing ever._

"How come you never said anything?"

"You were sixteen," Derek says, touching their foreheads together.

"I'm seventeen now."

"I know."

"I'll be eighteen soon."

"I know."

"So, like, all this time…?"

"No." Derek breathes in deep, a cold gust across the skin of Stiles's neck. "I tried not to think about it. About you. Not until recently."

"Recently?"

"Your father knows," Derek says, pulling just far enough away that Stiles can see his smile. "And you said he wouldn’t shoot me."

He feels his own lips pulling into a grin as Derek comes in close again. At the last second, Stiles dodges back an inch. "Seriously, though, what _did_ he say to you on the phone?"

Derek's smile widens, his eyes lighting up as he's shaking his head. He sneaks in fast and they're kissing again.

 

* * *

 

A while later Stiles wanders back to the reception. It doesn't look like anyone noticed that the bartender took a break twenty minutes longer than he was supposed to. Hopefully they won’t notice the redness of Stiles's face and neck, either, or that his shirt is buttoned crooked and he lost his tie.

He skirts around the outside edge of the dance floor and spots Scott with his mom. He watches her twirl, her ruffled dress flowing out, and how her eyes widen when Scott tries to dip her, both of them laughing.

He finds his dad sitting at a table by himself and hurries over to join him. "You let our dates run off with each other," Stiles says, taking the seat next to him.

"They'll be back," he replies, holding up Ms. McCall's purse. He leans forward then, looking closely at Stiles. "And where have you been?"

"Heh, right." Stiles laughs, trying to hide his face. "So, it's like this."

"Uh-oh."

Stiles forces himself to stop fidgeting in his seat and twisting the edge of the table cloth between his fingers. He steels himself, breathes in deep, and looks up into his father's eyes. His nerves leave him as he realizes he doesn't even need to lie anymore.

"Remember that time you thought I was dating Derek and you were kind of okay with it?"

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a very simple idea, then became way longer than I ever thought possible (surprise, surprise) and went in a bunch of different directions. (There are actually a few aspects introduced in here that I'd like to revisit and elaborate on later. But not in a sequel; this is definitely finished.)
> 
> I was sort of exploring how to write each of the characters, and if they feel off it's because I haven't figured them out yet. Derek was particularly difficult; I think I'd like to try writing from his POV next time. Also, when I began, I forgot that I have no earthly clue how normal father figures act, so it's a little lighter on the Sheriff than I would've liked.
> 
> I don't know if they've ever given a birth date for Stiles, but he was already driving in the pilot episode so he had to be sixteen, have gone through driver's training, had his permit for the requisite period of time, and gotten his license, putting his birthday somewhere in autumn? That's what I'm going with.
> 
> I cobbled together the OC shapeshifters using a bunch of different folklore on Wikipedia (the most reliable source in the whole universe) and the episode "Skin" of Supernatural for inspiration. Then I made a bunch of stuff up.
> 
> I've never been disemboweled, but I have had my guts sliced open and swirled about. Derek still healed WAY faster than I did.
> 
> Bonus trivia! I am really bad at coming up with names for OC side characters. A child of the 90s with a keen eye might recognize that, aside from Molly and her mother, all the other OC's were named after the Rugrats cartoon. I feel really terrible that I killed some of them. Also, that in this Phil and Lil were married, not twins (that weirded me out a bit just now).
> 
> There are also lots of references to other shows and movies littered throughout. I tried to make them obvious enough to be recognized, but not so blatant as to be irritating. Hope I succeeded in that.
> 
> You can find me [over here on the tumblrs!](http://sullymygoodname.tumblr.com/) I still don't know how it works. It's like being on a ride and I can't find the 'oh shit!' bar.


End file.
